Slave To Circumstance
by Joel182
Summary: "We are all martyrs by choice, and slaves to circumstance." WARNING: CONTAINS SOME SLASH! Enjoy :) Multiple pairings (not all slash): ChrisxEvan; TakerxPunk; CodyxTed
1. In The Beginning

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING EXCEPT THE PLOT. NAMES BELONG TO VINNY MAC/HHH. Enjoy :)**

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><p>Life's occupational hazard is simply that the people living in it want to see an end so vastly different from their beginnings. But, in life, there is no real end without a beginning, and there is no beginning without an end. One cannot coincide without the other, and as such becomes something inescapable. People, however, have yet to accept that kind of truth, and spend the entirety of their lives looking to escape the very thing they set out to find – leaving behind who they truly were to seek for someone whom they no longer recognize.<p>

At that point, there is no turning back, because the roads traveled have all vanished, and the world has already stopped spinning.

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><p><em>Ten years ago…<em>

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><p>The wind outside howled something bitter and filled with violent resent. A nasty war was happening someplace in the Heavens – cloud pit against cloud, pressure mounted in the highest numbers – clashing to form earth-shaking thunder, and ear shredding lightning that exploded to the tune of loud shrieks and roars. The weather wasn't this way when the day started, but even if it had been, he couldn't have dressed in anything but a thin white T-Shirt, a grey hoodie, and a pair of battered jeans that edged off at the tips of old, torn sneakers - an ensemble he had majorly stolen from a nearby department store. The whipping rain soaked him through to the bone with little concern for his already floundering health, and added excess water weight on top of his rail thin body. He had been journeying a total of six months now, and finally he reached the end of his long, hard road. Through the lift of the sagged and dripping hood, starving yet focused auburn eyes burned holes into the large metal gate stood closed ahead of him. The wind continued to stir tornado-like about him – shoving him at odd and extreme angles, like an angry crowd heading in different compass directions at the same time –and the rain had yet to cease its attempt to drown him, but even so, the boy refused to be deterred. He continued to look upon the soul-crushing size of the large metal barrier in a form of defiance known only to people who have yet to understand when the term 'give up' applied to their current circumstance.<p>

The idea of scaling the large gate had crossed his mind, but the nicks and cuts along his arms, torso and legs provided a cold reminder of the consequence of such ideas. His eyes veered off to his left and right only to find the gate stretching farther and father – making it a true impenetrable blockade. He felt himself losing, feeling in his extremities the shift of what little blood he had left rush directly to his core in an effort to keep him alive. A weary feeling began to bear down on him – more so than the soaking wet clothes did – and soon he felt his knees bending to the feel of misshapen equilibrium. His piercing eyes began to close as his head went light-foot in an instant. Days of piled exhaustion, no food, little water, and now first-stage hyperthermia had finally overthrown his inner drive. Falling was an inevitability his body soon welcomed.

It was the bright light that burned through the thin membranes of his eyelids that served to cease his fall. Halfway there, the bright light stung into his eyes forcing him to pull them shut, and spend more of his precious energy on bringing to his face skeleton arms that could barely support the heavy weight of soaking wet fabric. Although it was a serious struggle, the somewhat delayed reflex saw to it that the light was blocked from his eyes. Following this movement, he peered over his arms finding the bright light still shining back. Once more, he brought his eyes to a hard shut and turned his head to the side as the light drew closer.

"Hey!" A loud shout came from directly ahead. "Who the fuck are you?" Trailed swiftly in the midst of the light being put away momentarily only to be replaced by a heavy pair of arms tangling about his bony frame and eventually shoving him face first into the river of mud below his feet.

His teeth clashed wickedly against one another, and the force at which he fell jolted his head upwards only for it to freefall rapidly and catch the right side against a pointed stone. The pain immediately left his rattled jaw and synchronized its efforts around the shallow stab wound. Blood trickled unevenly out of the bruise and mixed in with the thick mud now clotting his nose and mouth.

"Perestan'!"_"Stop!"_ Came commandingly from a heavily accented voice not belonging to him or the man pinning him to the murky ground.

Sputtering, and near gasping for air, he pushed his face upwards, using the base of his chin like an extra arm, and looked up weakly at the pair of floating feet set before him. Shocked by the sight, he squinted beneath the unforgiving stabs of rain that targeted his vision with intent to blur, only to find what the cause for the floating feet was. They were hoisted on the metal brackets of a wheel chair that sat beneath a broad-rimmed black umbrella, and housed a large man dressed in a black-and-white striped pant-and-shirt pajama set. His large shoulders were shawled by a heavy red blanket that spilled over onto his lap and hung precariously close to the runny dirt below. Through the harsh rainfall, his malnourished eyes gazed upon the hard face of the man, finding in it lines of age that served to crack what could have otherwise been an unbreakable amour.

"Kto vy mal'chik?" _"Who are you boy?"_ The old man spoke again in his commanding tone riddled with the heavy drags of his accent. "Vy zdes', chtoby ubit' menya?" _"Are you here to kill me?"_

The man jailing him to the ground pushed his weight down wickedly on his hands. The bones bent in ways they should not, and the pain of it all forced from him a guttural scream that shot out with such force that it burned the inner lining of his skinny throat. In an effort to push aside the pain, auburn eyes quickly shot back up at the towering old man. The seated man looked back with staid blue eyes that seemed to shine all their own as if powered by a dark light not of this world.

"Skazhi mne, kto ty mal'chik" _"Tell me who you are, boy"_ A frown craved deep into his aged forehead, "ili ya ub'yu tebya." _"or I will kill you"_

Once more he stared on at the older man seated kingly in the silver-dusted wheelchair. His mind focused on the crushing weight threatening to break both his hands at their sockets, as well as the throbbing pain emitting from the open wound on his temple, now dirtied by wet mud and oozing blood.

"State your name and business little fuck!" The man lying on his arms barked at close range – causing a ringing in his ear.

He turned to glare back at the man – causing his hood to slip back as he did – before looking back at the older man. His eyes held there for a second, before they fell to view the mud flowing steadily beneath him. The rain continued its onslaught, and in the distance, the roar of thunder and the shrieks of lightning sent chills down his spine not stemmed from the cold. After a moment of silence, he looked back to the older man with a steely determination. For months he had dreamed of this moment. The end of his journey. Time and time again he felt like quitting, giving in, and even dying, but for every one of those moments came the image of seeing this man – an image that served to be more than enough to get him past those dark times. Now finally here, he decided within himself that win, lose or die, he would put to his story a fitting end.

"Menya zovut Kevin Marshall . Moy otets Kevin fon Erikh. Davnym-davno, moy otets sbezhal

"_My name is Kevin Marshall. My father is Kevin Von Erich. Long ago, my father ran away_

ot vas, no vy vsegda zhdali zdes' nadeyutsya na yego vozvrashcheniye. Ne Moy otets bol'she ne

_from you, but you have always waited here hoping for his return. My father no longer wishes to_

zhelayet nesti etu rodoslovnuyu . On otreksya yego familiyu. YA ne razdelyayu yego chuvstva,

_carry this bloodline. He has disowned his family name. I don't share his sentiments,_

i imenno poetomu ya prishel syuda segodnya , chtoby sprosit' vas, ser Fon Erikh – lider Von

_which is why I have come here tonight, to ask you, Sir Von Erich – leader of the Von_

Erich klana – prinyat' vashego vnuka v sem'ye i pozvol'te mne byt' vashim vechnost'."

_Erich Clan – to accept your grandson into the family and let me be your eternity."_

Steely blue eyes widened ever so slightly to what the chiseled ears had just heard. From the foot of the wheelchair, he stared back with the remaining bit of fire left in his being, all in an effort to showcase how utterly serious he was. Here was the point of no return. It was something he had practiced over and over and over for countless years. In less than a minute, it had now all been said.

The violent wind continued its onslaught. The rain did nothing to ease the strain, and instead threatened to drown both him and the man restraining him in the sea of mud now rapidly flowing beneath them. The old man looked on unmoved and unfazed by the storm clashing around him. Rather, he simply tapped a large finger down on the arm rest of his wheelchair. In an instant, the man holding the umbrella appeared beneath its roof and looked down at him. He looked back with his chin now stuck in the mud, but did nothing more except squint away the attacking rain drops.

In the silence, the old man leaned back into his wheelchair and allowed himself to be pivoted, turned and wheeled away towards the gate. The man atop him soon released him, allowing him to stand now covered in heavy mud and dirt. With a harsh shove to the shoulder, the bodyguard pushed him towards the slightly open gate. He walked gingerly towards it – a mixture of rocketing excitement brewing within him – and flinched slightly to the loud bang of the gate being locked in an effort to once again keep out the world.

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><p><em>Eleven years ago…<em>

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><p>"Aw shit." The tall blonde exclaimed as he caught a look at the violent storm pouring carelessly on the grimy asphalt of a now darkened city. "Guess drinks are out of the question tonight guys." He spoke whilst turning his sunken eyes to the two men stood behind him. "What the hell are you smiling about Jason?"<p>

To his name, the equally slim man looked to the man stood in front of him, only to broaden his already large smile. "It's not all bad." He spoke as he zipped shut his jacket, "I get to spend some quality time with my girl." His smile thinned to a cheeky grin, "If you had a girl, Adam, you wouldn't be so depressed about a cancelled boy's night out."

"I have a girl, you cocky bastard." He snarled before sporting a grin of his own, "I'm just not tied down for a life contract like you and Chris are."

"Look who's being cocky now." Spoke a calmer voice from beneath a small smile. Both men looked to Chris – watching as the man peered forward to see more of the violence happening in the sky. "Anyways," He spoke with neck stretched out, "I'm heading out for drinks regardless of what Mother Nature's doing." Light blue eyes looked to both Adam and Jason, "You coming Adam?"

The tall blonde ran his hand over the short bristles of his blonde hair, before glancing back to the happenings outside the window. "Nah. Fuck it." He sighed heavily, "I guess I'll just head over to Trish's and go get some for the night."

"Doesn't she have a boyfriend?" Jason piped in with a frown sitting over his brow.

Adam chucked up an irritating grin, "Not on the weekend." He spoke in an equally irritating tone. His eyes went back to Chris, "I'll take you up on that offer another time, Jericho."

"Alright." Chris spoke unaffected by the rejection as he busied himself with collecting his things.

Jason looked to the younger man with a bit of worry splotched on his face. "You should head home, man. Shouldn't keep the wife waiting."

"She's used to waiting." Chris answered coldly as he pointedly turned off his computer. "Besides, the drinks aren't for me. I'm meeting with a potential CI on that drug trafficking case."

Adam looked on in disbelief at the younger man, "You're turning down the wife for a sit down with some junkie?" He slowly shook his head, "New York's never met something colder than you my man."

To the remark, Chris simply shrugged before grabbing a set of keys off the edge of his desk. An arm reached out and latched firmly on to his shoulder. Chris glanced back to the owner finding a worried Jason on the other end.

"Did you two get into another argument, Chris?"

Adam looked at Jericho, watching as the man eyed Jason with a stare that would have been soulless had it not been for the tiny speck of life that pulsed beneath its gelatinous skin.

To Chris' silence, Jason pressed on, "I know you love your work Chris, and you are damn sure good at it, but it's not worth losing Jessica." Blue eyes slowly slipped downwards as the words hit home. Jason smiled softly at his friend, "Why don't you take yourself home tonight. Surprise her with your presence and your attention, and be there for her. Even if it is for one night…do it. Guys like us may never get that kind of chance again."

Jericho heaved a long, hard sigh. It lifted his chest only to sink it immediately. "I slept on the couch this time, and she won't talk to me." His voice stiffened, "I've got nothing but work."

"That's not true." Chris looked up to the taller man, finding his trademark calm smile on his face, "Do you know how many times my wife has thrown me to the curb and given me the silent treatment?" He chuckled lightheartedly, "She'll come around. But you gotta beat her to it." Jason dug into his pocket and put to the conversation a twenty dollar bill, "Look, there's a flower shop called Del Rio's a few blocks from here. It's still open at this time, and I know the owner. Nice Mexican guy. Tell him Jason sent you, and he'll give you what's going to bring Jessica back."

Jericho looked on uneasily at both Jason and the crumpled money being handed to him. Eventually, he brought a bored looking stare to Reno's smiling face, "Flowers?" He asked dryly, "You want me to bring her flowers?"

"Trust him Chris." Adam chipped in as he pushed the power button on the face of his computer, "He's a hopeless romantic." Copeland walked closer to Jericho – stopping beside Reno whose shoulders he flung his arm over. "This guy never fails to put the love in a woman. If anything, he's too fucking nice and honest for some of these chicks, but I guarantee his advice is worth buying."

Jericho looked back to Jason watching in silence as the man angrily stabbed Adam in the ribs with the hilt of his elbow to which Adam merely laughed off, before throwing a smile of his own onto his face. "Alright." He spoke while taking the money handed to him, "I'll go buy her some flowers." His smile transformed into a snide grin, "This better work Jay or else."

Jason laughed to the weak threat, "You won't be able to keep her off of you." He patted the man's shoulder, "Go make a happy wife."

Chris nodded lightly as he turned away and headed out the door. Once outside the winds tore through his clothing as if whipping up a pile of dry leaves, and the rain bombarded him from every known corner. He huddled closer to his body and coat, as he stepped forward in the pounding rain. Barely two blocks in his struggling walk, a black car drove up to the sidewalk and stopped beside him- impatiently sounding its horn for his attention. Jericho looked over slightly agitated and watched as the window rolled down on the passenger's side.

"Chris!" A husky voice called through the cabin of the car. Jericho peered in to see the face of his Captain – Brett Hart. "Get in." The older man motioned to Chris his command.

Jericho opened the door and slipped into the vehicle. He turned to look at the man sat beside him. "What brings you out in this shitstorm?" He asked behind an arrogant grin, as he wiped away the streams of water tearing down his face.

Brett chuckled lightly, "I like shitstorms. They clear my mind." He glanced to Jericho's wandering confusion, "Look in the back."

To the command, Jericho turned in his seat. His eyes spotted a simple brown folder labelled E-22 staring back whilst being jolted around by the moving vehicle. Using his furthest reach, he seized the folder and brought it to his lap – opening it as he did. Inside were a collage of pictures, notes, signed documents, and torn pieces of paper stitched together by tape. Wide-eyed, the younger man looked to Brett – finding his Captain smiling from ear to ear.

"It's just what you think Chris." He spoke while making a right turn, "Their meetings have been confirmed. Two isolated targets." He glanced to the gaping blonde, "We're going in tonight." His eyes drifted back to the road, "I've already sent messages to Adam and Jay. They're meeting us at the docks."

Chris looked away for a brief moment. In his lap sat an open folder of every bit of Intel gathered so far by their motley team. His mind thought about all they had been through to get to this point. The long nights, countless days of no sleep, bitching higher ups, and the occasional visit from IA – just to name a few roadblocks. His instincts knew this was it – the right moment to strike that had been eluding them for years now. However, something remained unsettled deep in his soul. When he finally managed to claw through the thick muck, he found Jessica there looking back with the sad expression he had come to know her by. He found himself inwardly telling her how sorry he was, and that it was work and that he could do nothing about it. He had to go. This was a long time coming. This had to be done to keep peace in the world and ensure that justice prevailed. Inside, he apologized to her, promising her that eventually he would make it up to her. They would take that trip she always wanted, see that show she wanted to see, and have the family she always dreamed of having. Jessica looked back at him with fervent eyes. She then craved up a shaky smile and waved him goodbye. Inside, Jericho kissed his wife and left to be the hero of a story long in the making.

"Did the Commissioner sanction this?" He asked while closing the folder shut.

"No." Brett responded dryly. His shaded eyes watching the road ahead, "It's a silent operation. No backup, no rescue team. Just us four in an out like a hot knife on butter." He looked back to Chris with a side smile, "Something bothering you Chris?"

Jericho flinched slightly to the question, as his mind wandered back over to Jessica and the ever-growing list of promises he seemed incapable of fulfilling today, or yesterday or last year. "No." As he responded, he looked out the window and watched the world pass by through a maze of countless raindrops. The car turned once more, revealing to Jericho the sight of a flower shop with its light still on inside. For a while, Jericho stared at the window unable to find a way to return to normal the workings of his innards.

"If you're regretting this, tell me now and I'll let you walk away unscathed." Brett spoke dryly, "The last thing we need is a shaky shot."

Jericho continued to look outside for another few seconds, before sighing and returning his attention to his Captain. His expression now reverted to its standard issue nonchalance. "My aim's sharper tonight, Sir." He smirked coyly, "Bullets are expensive you know."

Brett laughed loudly as he nodded to his own amusement, "That's the spirit." He clenched the steering wheel tightly, "Let's go take out the trash."

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><p><em>Twelve years ago…<em>

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><p>As the screaming wind hammered down on the sleeping woodlands below – ripping through the more feeble trees – heavenly water rained down relentlessly, intending in every way to empty their century-old storehouses atop his 1979 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. Encased in the sleek black mosh-pit of metal and genuine leather, he was rather comfortable sitting in the belly of a raging storm. Behind the trees and wilderness shrubbery that made up this little slice of exclusive seclusion, the DeVille sat motionless for a total of three days – stockpiled with a gallon of rationed water, granola bars made from woodchips and bonded by pig spit, and a simple <em>Mead<em> composition book. For three days in a seemingly never-ending storm, the black vehicle sat perched on the apex of a small slope, tucked away inside the overgrown forestry that had long since consumed the forgotten back-trail – overlooking the secluded landscape through the darkened lenses of large, square eyes.

The downpour quickly changed direction as the wind picked up speed. Soon, dagger-like rain drops hailed across the body of the car, whipping over it in an effort to force it down the sliding mud and into one of the many trees further down below. However, having come here on a night similar to this, he had long since stumped the two-door Cadillac into the mud using large, indigenous boulders to block the four tires. Try as it might, the rain's onslaught proved fruitless in its efforts to run the vehicle off the slope. Comforted by the proven success of his tactic, his eyes focused less on the violent storm, and more on the moon-kissed, white house sitting a few yards down.

The large home backed up into the treacherous forest, and would have been near impossible to spot had he not known where to look. A simple road map was all he needed, and with a full tank of gas, he crossed city borders to end up atop a slope directly behind a nature-loving home – rewarding himself with the perfect vantage point. Using nothing save his own pair of eyes and what little fragmented light refracted off the homes' now lit back porch (coupled with flashes of rogue lightning and fragments of silver-tongued moonlight), he spotted visible movement down below. A man – exact height of six feet, exact weight of two hundred and five pounds, and exact age of forty three – stepped onto the back porch. It was walled off by fine wire mesh that served to keep the bugs out – yet offer a panoramic view of the nature growing in the backyard – and had a single door that had been left slightly open. The man walked over – lightly dressed in a long pair of pants, and a plain T-Shirt – and brought the door to a close.

From a few yards away, stationed in the bowels of a dark forest, the DeVille sat entirely motionless in its own silence – allowing the wind, and rain, and random thunder claps to noisily distract from its ominous presence. Inside, he watched as the man looked directly into the forest thickets, knowing that the man could not see anything past his porch light. As he watched the man, he reached over to the passenger seat and took into his hands the _Mead_ composition book. His sharp eyes had yet to leave the man – watching with hawk-like precision as the man heaved a heavy sigh as if to concede to the weather serving to ground him to the country home, before turning away and returning back into the opaque house. A few seconds later, the porch light shut off leaving nothing to be seen but the whiteness of the home and a few shimmers of water that ran with the sliding mud.

With _Mead_ book in hand, his eyes fell down and stared at the cover – swathed with repeating prints of black-and-white camouflage. For a moment he simply stared at the book, until his hearing followed suit by drowning out the hellish noises of the brutal storm. Soon, all fell quiet as his fingers curled into their positions and opened the book, skipping through lightly, and stopping at the last page.

_Day 3._

_6:45AM._

_The daily routine begins. Wake up. Get dressed. Answer phone calls. Reply to urgent emails. Kiss the wife. Drink coffee. Black. Head upstairs. Wake the oldest. Head across the hall. Grab the packed briefcase. Head downstairs. Oldest is at the table eating Cheerios complaining about having to go to school in the rain. Kiss the wife again as thanks for the pre-packed briefcase. Answer that phone call. Tell the lady on the line "I'm on my way". Head to the car. _

_8:30AM._

_Eat breakfast. A McDonald's egg sandwich. Spit out the last bite. It tastes like crap. Drink another cup of coffee. Black. Speak to the secretary. Nice old lady. Compliment her aging attire. Tell her she looks young enough to marry. Give her that wink and devilish smile. Now she agrees to cancel your afternoon appointments. She's a doll, ain't she? Leave the office. Get back in the car. Get driven to the sushi spot downtown. Talk to a Japanese interpreter. Sign documents. Get documents signed. Leave the restaurant. Get back in the car. Check the time on the watch. Ten minutes till the Chinese arrive._

_12:52PM._

_Secretary's still on lunch. Phone's ringing. It disconnects. The Chinese still haven't arrived yet. Signal for the busboy to give a call back to the city Mayor for that budget briefing the Secretary cancelled this morning. Mayor's on line 1. Answer the call. Tell him 1:00. Tell him the conference room at Wyndam. Get in the car. Go to the Wyndam. Look at the ringing cellphone. It's the wife. Pick it up. It's the youngest. He's sick. Can't go to school today. Speak to the youngest. Tell him to get some rest. Tell him you love him. Tell him you'll be home soon. Get off the phone. Get escorted to the conference room. Sit down and talk to the Mayor. Blame the Secretary for cancelling the appointment. She's old and needs to be replaced. _

_3:45PM._

_The Chinese finally arrive. Get downstairs. Meet them, and escort them to the upper conference room. Sit down and talk with the Chinese. Keep focus on the guy sitting at the head of the table. He's the meal ticket. The others are just here for show. Impress that guy with the Mandarin that Rosetta Stone taught you. Crack an appropriate joke. Something about money you heard a long time ago. Make that guy laugh. Make him sign the paperwork. Make him commit to funding. Call the Mayor when the Chinese leave. Let him know city funds have been approved. Wall Street's getting that facelift. Head back to the office. Meet the nice Secretary. Listen to her babble about the food she ate and who she met while she was where. Listen to her read off messages. Perk up on that development contract. Tell her to set up the meeting with the Global Agency. Get in the car. Go downtown. _

_5:23PM._

_Shake hands with Ted DiBiase Senior. Sit in his lavish office. Talk to him about the developmental plans. Talk to him about the lucrative side. Shake hands on a joint contract. Get downstairs. Get a call. Answer the phone. Hear the slut on the other line tell you what she wants to do to you tonight. Get off the phone. Dream about what you've been told. Head back to the office. Finish signing paperwork and conducting meetings. Wave goodbye to the Secretary. Look at the message on the phone. The slut wants it rough tonight. Really, really rough. _

_8:15PM._

_Get in a different car. Drive to the backside of downtown. Go to the tall, brick-front apartment building. Get inside. Open the door. Get jumped by the smooth-skinned twenty four year old. Carry her with ass-cheeks in hand and lips locked on for dear life. Fall to the bed. Give her what she wanted. Take what she promised. Forget the ring on your left finger. _

_9:45PM._

_Five missed calls. The wife. Wondering about you. Call the wife back. Tell her the work piled up. Tell her "I'm on my way". Take a shower. Leave the slut. Head downstairs. Bump shoulders with some guy in a trench coat standing in your way. Don't say anything and keep walking. Get into the car. Drive back to the office._

_10:30PM._

_Reach the office. Call the driver. Get picked up. Go home. Wife's still up. Youngest is lying on her lap. He's breathing hard. Give the wife a kiss. Check on the youngest. He's burning up. Wife says the doctor came by and checked on him. Doctor says it's just a small fever due to the nasty weather. He'll pull through just fine. Rub your hand through his hair, and give the youngest a gentle kiss on the forehead. Tell him you love him. Carry him to bed. Stand in the doorway with the wife. Kiss the wife's forehead and tell her it will be alright. Turn off the light. Head to the daughters' room. Kiss them both on the forehead. Go to the teenager's room. Peek inside, see him sleeping, smile and leave. Head to the master bathroom. __Take a second shower__. Take a_ long,_ second shower. Talk about the office. Talk about the people the Secretary met on her lunch. Laugh about the joke that you told the Chinese today. Jump into bed with the wife. Hug the wife. And sleep._

Using the pencil embedded in the crevice of the book, he quickly scribbled in another entry.

_11:58PM._

_Wind breaks open back porch door. Check on back porch door. Sigh in annoyance at the storm. Head back inside. Turn off the porch lights. _

He looked to his watch momentarily, before writing once more.

_12:00AM._

_Don't wake up._


	2. Odin

The less people know about Smokey Corner, the better. But as far as knowing even goes, this is the most anyone will ever truly need to know about it.

History has it that ever since the small social club was built smack dab in the middle near Main and 14th, bad things started to happen to the city. In the week following the grand opening of Smokey Corner, two heads of the Black Shield – a crime organization that has become the veins, arteries, and literal capillaries of this town by hiding in plain view amongst the unsuspecting masses – walked in, shared a few drinks, and left a blood bath of waitresses, bartenders and customers alike on their way out. The metro police had nothing to go on – or if you follow rumors, they had plenty to go on – and so the incident itself was vigorously shoved under the proverbial rug. It would be months before Smokey Corner ever saw life again, but not from the law-abiding world above. Rather, Smokey Corner – now tightly shoved into a dead end alley of yesteryear – is a den of thieves, filled to the brim with stray dogs (some of whose bite is bigger than their bark).

In short, nobody with any selfish love for life and self-preservation dared step foot down the dark alley near Main and 14th. Not without a cause anyway. To visit Smokey Corner and not be a part of the vast shadow of the Black Shield meant one of two things. You either had a death wish or you were already a dead man. Fortunately for one soul neither of those reasons applied. Instead, his reason for showing up on the blood-stained doorstep of the infamous Smokey Corner was sheer desperation. The dogs were after him and he had run out of places to hide. Smokey Corner was his only sanctuary (well, at least it would be until dawn cracked open the black sky up above) but it did not come without its hefty price. This place was a known glutton for death, and it proudly stunk of it too.

Once he reached ten feet of the dammed building, the stench of fresh corpses – littered someplace inside the dark backdrop of Smokey Corner –overpowered him, forcing him to stop short of the door. In this moment of involuntary hesitation, all the initial and immediate need to survive fled in an instant as he slowly began to second guess what used to be his final decision. He knew he had no other choice – the dogs were bound to find him if he ever stepped foot back outside this alleyway – but Smokey Corner was like a woman scorned. It was vicious and unforgiving. With luck, he thought, he might get out of this in one piece. With no luck, he would wake up dead this time tomorrow.

Faced with that horrific ratio, he took in a huge gulp of air, forced it down his skinny throat, and shivered to its cold, rotting taste. Then he looked back to the darkness that remained a good distance behind – all courtesy of the lone yellowing street light that hung maybe three feet from Smokey Corner's door – and thought hard about taking a step towards it. After all, he wasn't dressed for this kind of weather (nothing save a T-Shirt, loose track pants, and bare feet 'clothed' him) so standing out in the open space between Smokey Corner and the swallowing blackness behind him was not the ideal spot to be in. The mansion, he thought, was much warmer than this. Maybe he should go back.

"Hey!" An angry voice called ahead. When he turned around to meet it, he saw the frightening face – hardened by years of torment and dotted with eyes that had seen too much death and a mouth that had fed greedily on the leftovers – of a burly man (seven feet max) who was taking the time to swing around what clearly looked to be a long, metal pipe. Needless to say, the man was not happy with this stray that suddenly washed up on what he considered to be his turf – a feeling he fully intended to showcase by using the pipe in his hand. "What d'ya think you're doin' round 'ere bitch?!" The man came menacingly closer.

"I-I-" Was all he managed to squeak out before the large man charged – like a bull seeing red – towards him, all the while yelling like a warrior set for battle. Soon all seven feet of the attacker rapidly shrunk the distance between them, and so it did not take long for him to deduce the best course of action.

Run. Like. Fuck.

In a split second, his heels were the first to kick back, allowing his ankles to freely pivot. Followed meticulously by that was the complete one hundred and eighty degree twist of his spine, which was key in bringing his body to a much desired full turn. One second later, his entire body was set in the opposite direction. And in the time it took to draw breath, he was already three steps towards the darkness from where he had first appeared. The robust man was still giving chase and, rapidly catching up.

Frantically, in one of those human reflexes that are more result of accidental cross-wiring than well-thought motions, he looked over his shoulder only to see the full physique of the larger man now stomping directly behind him. The fearsome man was so close that he could feel his acidic blood lust rip away at his shoulder blades and well-stretched sternocleidomastoid. With one swing, the metal pipe came crashing down, forcing him to immediately switch tactics and utilize all of his vanishing strength to barely evade the moving weapon. The act dropped him like a dead weight. Noticing the miss with predator-like clairvoyance, the charging man stopped and instantly – with a simple flick of the wrist –came back with a reverse swing of his weapon, slicing through the tight air space with a clear shot of the exposed temple in his blood thirsty sights.

The ringing echo of a gun being fired was merely an afterthought in wake of the soul-crushing sound that came distinctively from a small bullet breaking through the bone of a human skull, ripping through the soft tissues of the brain inside, and finally slamming into the brick wall mere inches away. In grayed, slow motion, the charging bull fell crumpled to the ground – starting with the dead pounds of swollen flesh above the knees, and ending with his face being thrown harshly into the black pool of indistinguishable fluid that lay below his feet. Despite being used to this cut scene, the sight of his would be killer lying dead on the pavement was still just as unsettling as the last few times he had seen such an image from the front row.

"Cody" Called a husky voice that emitted from the blanketing darkness.

When no one responded to the question, the owner of the voice stepped forth to reveal the terrifyingly large frame of one very intimidating Dave 'The Animal' Batista. (The nickname stemmed from a long line of various methods that Dave used to kill people when he had time to spare.) Batista peered down – through the frames of his dark aviators – at the skinny brunette huddled up against the wall in fear of both the dead man and the man responsible for making him that way.

After a few seconds of staring, Dave sighed loudly as he took the time to put back his heavy gun into its holder. He walked over to the young man, stretching out a helping hand in the process. "Can you stand?"

The question served as the wedge that drove a great divide – the size of the Grand Canyon – between himself and the situation. Finally Cody was able to absorb it all and wake up from his cryogenic state. In that instant, he flung his deep sapphires fiercely up at the man – dressed in tailored Armani and expensive Hugo Boss – before landing his glare on the hand now facing him. In disgust, he swatted it away.

"I don't need your fucking help!" He snapped, whilst using the crumbling wall as an aide to stand instead. Once to his feet, he focused his sharpened glare directly into the shaded eyes of The Animal. "Why the hell are you after me?! Ted and I had a deal!"

"You did." He replied coldly. "But that was before you decided to leave his turf and go jay walking onto Orton's." He leaned in closer. "Just be thankful that this place is a neutral zone, or else the Boss would have sent in the entire fucking Calvary."

Cody visibly held back on lashing out, because this was all true. It only made sense now that the dogs were after him. After all, even though Ted had truly promised him, quote, "a gift of freedom", years of living with those promises should have taught him the most valuable lesson. That freedom is nothing but an illusion, because nothing is ever truly free. Especially himself.

Enraged at the knowledge that he should have known better, he venomously took it out on Dave by hissing "You should have just left me alone!"

"I would, but you're the Boss's property." Dave spoke again in a grim tone. "And you're not on his turf."

Cody continued to glare at Batista, hoping somewhere that the man could see past the veiling anger and realize how much he did not want to return. How much he hated that place and that life. How much he wanted to be here, in this world that he could make his own – by erasing the man called Cody Rhodes. But Dave Batista read otherwise. He saw none of those things. What The Animal saw in Rhodes' deep blue eyes was a kid with a well-oiled mind and a firm hold on the balls of all the major players. One well positioned twist and this kid – Cody fucking Rhodes – would become King. Indeed, there is a lot to be afraid of near the corner of Main and 14th, but what was the most chilling came packaged in a one hundred and ninety pound body.

"It's about to rain. Let's go." Came off as a strong order not up for debate. "Now." He growled whilst turning away.

Cody stood his ground for a few more seconds before a winter breath swept through his poor fabric – silently nudging him forward. He turned to look back at the sullen corner shop tucked away a few feet behind him. It looked back with a deathly cold sweeping across its eye-like tiny front windows. The solitary street lamp that lit up the bare entrance of the Smokey Corner, merely flickered to the gentle touch of a pair of playful moths – both of which were in complete unawares of the happenings down below.

Either that, or they were numb to a life of death and dying. Just like Cody.

Knowing full well that he had no real escape – he could run to Smokey Corner but Dave Batista is not a man to be toyed with, especially when he had a job to do – Cody turned away from Smokey Corner's alluring residue of sanctuary, and trailed behind the broad back of The Animal. Two more men – emerging from the shadows and dressed in nothing but black – enclosed Rhodes the moment he let go of the wall. They followed him in silence, leaving the worn building to watch through steely eyes as the winter slowly coated the lump of lifeless flesh lying ten feet from its door.

* * *

><p>There was a scrapping sound that went before the inevitable orange glow. After a total of countless tries, the match finally caught a perfect stroke, and soon its head was set ablaze. As mesmerizing as the process was, he dared not linger his gaze upon the fascinating way the fire danced under the slightest touch of the cold, twilight wind. After all, it was this very wind that had claimed the premature deaths of many of his short-stocked matches. Therefore, without further ado, he quickly – and rather instinctively – shielded the fragile blaze with the warmth of a nearby hand, drawing the joyous fire towards his mistress.<p>

How beautiful she was. From her pale white skin, to her ashy hair that glowed with a bright burst of orange the moment the match touched her head. Everything about his mistress was perfect. And as an added bonus, she came neatly packed with nineteen more just like her. The only true downside was that she was deadly. And cruel.

As the winter air violently pushed against the left side of his bare neck, he huddled in closer to himself and went in for a much needed drag off his mistress' lips. She tasted like raw coal at first, but soon her warm, grey breath spread into his every being like wildfire – leaving him feeling weak with unmatched pleasure. God how he loved her.

Once the first drag was over, he threw away the dead match without a second thought. It landed precariously on a small mound of leftover snow that had yet to succumb to the effects of a changing climate. His baby blues stood steely on the match before the need to kiss his mistress' poison lips forced him to focus entirely on her and her toxins. He coolly took another drag, and his mistress cackled in wicked delight. She was dying, and so was he. A perfect state of euphoric entwined them both in a heartbeat. The feeling of endless pleasure came over him once more, but notably this time it lasted a few seconds shorter than the first drag. This was the ultimate torment. Blinded by sheer desperation, he quickly took in another long drag – nearly completely transforming his mistress into nothing but ash – clawing away madly at some faint hope that she would return the favor of providing a more lasting pleasure. She did not. Instead, she left him to the beasts of his despair, and gleefully laughed as he caved to his desires.

He needed more, and so, with one last drag, he tossed his mistress aside and instantly pulled out another. Anxious, he dug vigorously into the pocket of his winter jacket for another match. He found the box, opened it, and was immediately flung into a state of destruction. Not a single one of his fire starters remained. The cold breaths of a stubborn winter had taken the lives of many of his matches, and along the way he had lost track of the growing number.

A stiff panic consumed him as he wrung his lifeless new mistress between his tensed lips. One light was all she needed to endow him with the desires of his soul. He looked down at the last match he had used – rapidly conjuring up ways to possibly revive it – and bent down to take its' lifeless body into his large hands. He stared at it – whilst clutching it between his two fingers – and silently begged it to show some sign of life. Some sign of a possible resurrection. The charred head merely crumbled away to the aching wind that cruised by – leaving the desperate man to sigh in defeat.

"I hope that's not evidence you're got there Detective." Were the words that split over the grains of a voice made entirely out of sand-paper. A pair of feet crunched the iced snow below their heavy soles as they took a short stride over to the man holding the long-gone match. Once within a satisfying range, the pair of feet stopped moving. "Nothing should be tampered with."

"I'm not that careless, Captain." He flicked the wooden stick far ahead, whilst simultaneously standing to his own two feet. "Looks like she was though." He spoke as he sauntered over – hands in pocket; cigarette still twisted between his lips – to the nearby crumpled naked body lying face first in the hard concrete.

"Hmm" The gritty voice came back in response. "Looks like suicide to me Detective."

He turned to look at the man standing behind him. From an unbiased analysis, he was older (visible by the lines on his face), tall, well-built, dressed in causal jeans, running sneakers, a tired shirt and his trusted leather jacket. His head of long hair was let out in an untamed mass of curled greying strands. Nothing in the description screamed Captain. But that is exactly who Bret 'The Hitman' Hart is. The nickname had no known origin, but guessing wise, everyone in the division of law enforcement believed Hart's other name to have solidified about ten years ago. Back when he used nothing but his revered skills and three trusted men to start the first war against the Organized Crime Lords (even going as far as to take down two heads of the Black Shield) and nearly win it if not for a lack of law enforcement support. There was nothing but respect for the Captain, but that did not render his closet skeletons any less suspicious. After the analysis were made – unnecessary seeing that the Detective knew him – his blue eyes watched as Hart shifted the aviators to better fit his face.

"Sunglasses at night." He scoffed – bringing the attention of his laxly dressed Captain. "Unorthodox, isn't it?"

"To each his own Jericho. To each his own." Bret smiled thinly – highlighting the strides of wrinkles that lined up uniformly at the corners of his mouth. "Wear gloves." He spoke whilst turning away- straightening his archetypal leather jacket. "I'll see you back at headquarters."

With that, the Captain left. Jericho – more precisely, Detective Chris Jericho – continued to watch as Hart got into the large black car and was driven away from the scene of the crime. Once the vehicle became fully engulfed in the heavy clouds of untamed winter fog, Chris turned his hardened expression over to the woman lying on the unsalted concrete. The unlit cigarette shifted through the grind of Jericho's teeth the longer he stared at the woman. She was dead. That much was as apparent as it was certain. But the longer he stood – hands pushed deep into his pant pockets and coat pulled back sleekly to accommodate the hinges of his elbows – staring at her, the more inclined Chris felt to press his fingers up against her jugular and test for a pulse.

This, after all, wasn't the first time he saw a body thought to be dead, walking about in the land of the living.

Another sly wind crept by in a haunting fashion – as if to remove the last, aching, breath from the poor soul – and ran up the exposed flesh of Jericho's arm, hiding beneath the heavy fabric of his coat sleeve. He chewed the cigarette between his teeth for a while longer before the taste of raw tobacco whiplashed over his taste buds in a mad frenzy. Immediately he spat it into the mound of snow a few centimeters to his immediate left. As if on cue, a dark-haired man dressed in white full-body uniform glared up at the older blonde.

"What?" Chris asked as nonchalantly as humanly possible. The man shifted his eyes momentarily to the cigarette, before flicking them back up boldly back to the Detective. "You can bag it if it makes you feel better."

The man simply shook his head in a "typical" fashion and, as per protocol, placed the chewed cigarette into a clear bag – making little effort to pull the red seal shut. Soon he stood to his feet and walked towards the body.

The Detective followed shortly after with feet dragging behind him. He badly wanted another cigarette. One of these CSI lab rats had to have one. Or better yet, the guppy patrol suits probably did. Desperate, he sauntered over to a small group of junior beat cops monitoring the land beyond the crime scene tape, and tapped away on one's shoulder.

"Hey." The little man ignored him. "Hey." The little man turned around as the other two followed with their eyes.

"Yes Sir?"

Chris cracked a barely there smile in an attempt to seem hospitable. He wound up looking like Clint Eastwood on a good day. "Do you have a light?"

"Ummm…" The young officer turned wearily – after performing a pathetic search of his own person – to his group, who all met him with collective stony expressions and sullen shakes of their heads. "No Sir. Sorry. I don't smoke."

"You don't smoke." Chris parroted through a loud sigh "You don't smoke yet you stand over here like the Three Stooges. Fucking useless." He spat whilst placing a heavy hand on the young man's shoulder. "In this world kid you only get one chance to make a good impression." His eyes remained cold and steady on the befuddled expression of the officer. "And now you're out of chances."

"And so are you." Spoke a voice not belonging to either man. As such, both men looked over Jericho's shoulder to find the small and short frame of one newly acquired Detective Evan Bourne – a transfer from another precinct. Jericho's latest partner (for three months now, if anyone was interested).

"Let go of him, Chris."

Jericho did not move as ordered. Instead he continued to peer deep into Bourne's eyes – daring him, silently, to do something. Do something out of line and fall back down that hole of obscurity that he had clambered out of. The snot-nosed brat (as Jericho liked to call him) did no such thing. Instead all the brunette did was puff his chest to a deep breath, and further tighten his hold on his unmoving expression. Knowing the outcome of this stand-off – and realizing now that this was not the place for this kind of a competition – Jericho relinquished his hold on the juvenile officer and begrudgingly walked by Evan, taking care to knock his shoulder on the way.

Bourne sighed almost relieved, before looking on commandingly at the three slightly confused officers. It was right that they looked this way. After all, it wasn't everyday people got to see Chris Jericho take orders and actually follow them to the letter. "You guys can punch out for the night. Go tuck yourselves in and be back by sunrise."

Without hesitation, the three officers left, allowing for Detective Bourne to turn his full attention to the blonde stooping directly beside the body. A breathy sigh escaped his mouth as he walked over to the man known better as 'partner'.

"What was that all about?" Bourne asked the moment he took up the space beside Chris.

Jericho replied with nothing more than an extension of his hand as he ran his fingers over the exposed blackened lips of the girl.

Noting the obvious disregard, Bourne looked to the cloudy heavens before bringing his eyes back down to the back of Jericho's head. "These guys are just doing their job Chris. There's no reason for you to steam roll them just because fate finally had enough of your smoking habit. Or because you refuse to just buy a lighter."

Again, the blonde Detective showed no further interest in adding to the conversation by simply taking into consideration the liquid on his gloved fingertips.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Was the defeated sentence that left Bourne's mouth.

"I'm always talking." He spoke whilst returning to a standing position. "You're just too noisy to notice." Bourne set up to speak, but Jericho jumped in the moment his face met Evan's. "What do you think this could be? It was leaking out of the victim's mouth."

Evan thought about retaliating with something meant more for Chris' former declaration, but opted out once his brown eyes caught a glance of the black, slimy liquid that sat on Chris' fingertips. "Don't know." His brows instinctively furrowed in thought. "But if I had to guess" He spoke from over the hills of his rambling thoughts, "I'd say…oil." His eyes looked to Chris – finding the man's deep blues staring back with a tinge of confusion laced in his expression.

"You'll get old fast if you keep frowning like that." He spoke matter-of-factly.

"And you'll be dead fast if you keep smoking." Jericho clammed up, as Bourne continued to analyze the stuff on the older man's fingers. "This looks more like bike oil. The kind used to lubricate the joints of a top brand motorbike. Maybe one from the Chopper or Harley family."

Jericho scoffed arrogantly. "Well that narrows our list to millions of people. Half from this city alone."

Bourne sighed in understanding. "We should get started then." His eyes looked on sympathetically at the naked body. "The sooner we catch this guy, the better."

"Yeah." Jericho spoke as he wiped away the liquid onto Bourne's jacket – forcing Evan to shift away whilst glaring at him. "Let's wrap up before the rain settles in."

* * *

><p>After what seemed like an eternity of growling thunder and playful lightning, the rain finally began. It started off as mere trickles, and despite the loud entrance, looked to continue as a drizzle for the remainder of its stay. Dark clouds floated by, gently kissing the face of Mother Moon as they passed on to become one with the night sky. Through fiery emerald eyes he watched the ritual with a distanced mind that was focused on one thing. It would three hours now before they would have to move again.<p>

To the knowledge, he heaved a heavy sigh (that pulled viciously on his fractured ribs and sternum) and let out the air in parts. This would be the eleventh night that he hadn't slept. He was tired, but what was keeping him awake wasn't just the person lying on the bed, it was rather a mind that constantly worked. He was always thinking, always calculating, always planning. It had been a ten year cycle and as of right now, with the finish line finally within his line of sight, he wanted nothing more than to end it.

Then a sound came to his ears. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._ It was a clock.

He hated clocks.

He hated the noise of their monotonous drill as they chipped away at pieces of time that could never be returned. He hated the fact that all clocks knew what was coming next – knew where people would be at a time it could easily preset – but never did a damn thing to stop it.

This room had a clock. It sat high above the bathroom doorway in his direct line of sight. He could look to the front door. He could look to the window. In the end though, his eyes would begrudgingly be brought back to that clock, captivated by its three moving hands that slowly shifted by in an achingly circular motion. The noise hurt his mind, and kept him awake for most of the night. With that, he turned out to be grateful for this wretched clock. After all, it had been over ten days since he last slept, and the person lying on the unchanged sheets of the cot-like bed needed him to be wide awake at all times. That person needed him to be sharp and vigilant, because one misstep – one slowed reaction – was all it would take to end up on death's door.

So he was thankful for the clock sitting in the room with him, keeping him awake. Otherwise, if he had given in to the warmth of sleep, he would have easily let slip the sound of footsteps creeping over the rotting wood on the outside steps.

In an instant, his hand tightened around the blackened 40 caliber Beretta 92F rail gun – nicknamed the_ Jackal_ – sitting readied on his lap. His index finger slipped coolly over the stiff trigger and simply rested there with the same ease of a feather touching the ground. Everything heightened in that moment of stillness and concentration. He could feel the rippling effects of a heavy tension as it slowly wrapped its hands around his large neck – threatening to cut off his circulation. The sound of his breathing vanished, making a clear way for the subtle breaths escaping the body lying on the bed. A cold sweat slid down the back of his neck and slipped away down the collar of his tattered T-Shirt, before finally soaking into it completely. His eyes, in all this, had yet to leave the front door.

As the footsteps grew louder, the more he drowned his senses, the sound of the clock grew heavier by the second. His eyes wanted to go back to its large, round face, but he kept them steady on the closed front door. Those footsteps, he knew, belonged to someone looking for a particular room. They could be coming for this very room. Once those footsteps found this room, the owner would try and open the door. It would be in that moment where he would take the _Jackal_ and end the life of whoever chose to enter this room.

Seconds ticked by in a heartbeat, and soon the footsteps stepped by the room door, disappearing into a room a few steps away. It was not until he clearly heard the _click_ of the door lock did he finally allow himself to breathe. The _Jackal_ slumped to the loosened grip, as he returned his hardened gaze to the person on the bed. The body turned completely on its side, and the sight brought a small smile to his face. At any given moment they could die. All it would take was one bullet to each skull.

_Bang! Bang!_ And they were gone.

However, despite the ever-present danger and threat to their lives, one could sleep peacefully while the other had yet to locate such a luxury. He sighed to himself in slight agony over his throbbing headache – a direct symptom of no sleep – and shoved his hand down the pocket of his trench coat hanging daringly off the handle of the old chair. When his hand returned to him, it had a grasp on a pamphlet. He took a look at it to make sure it was real, and did not stop looking until the noise of that damn clock pushed down further on his already painful headache. In a quick motion not easily caught by the human eye, the _Jackal_ stared at the clock with smoke flaring from its' silenced nostril.

Finally. The clocked stopped ticking.


	3. Dva

Naturally, and nearly orchestrated, there was a lot on Ted DiBiase's mind. The young man was a gifted soul who saw his fate at an age far too early. He was eighteen when his father presented him with the offer. Train to become leader. Or become dead. He hated his father, but not right now.

Right now, Ted was thinking of something far more troublesome. Most times, his troubles had something to do with his bank – The Global Agency– or surrounded the dirtier parts of collecting loans unpaid. Most times it was all just a blur. A jumbled cocktail of nameless and faceless objects. This time, however, his troubles had a name and a face.

Cody Rhodes.

/Fuck./ He thought as he stopped himself from advancing. /What the hell is the matter with me?/

Incidentally, there was nothing really wrong with Ted DiBiase. The twenty nine year old had done all that he could possibly do to ensure the safety and well-being of his father's legacy, the DiBiase Clan, his subordinates, and most importantly, his best friend Cody Rhodes. Everyone, even his hated parent, at the very least maintained orderly conduct by following Ted's rules as a way to show some form of respect for what he did for them all. Everyone, except Cody.

/Where have you been?/ He wanted to say it, but he knew that it was best to remain silent. If Cody woke up now, all hell would break loose. Especially since he was now so close to Rhodes that if he did reach out, he could easily touch him. And Cody hated to be touched, as much as he hated to be in Ted's presence. Simply put, Cody hated Ted. And not a damn thing was going to change that.

Ted knew, and knowing hurt.

After arguing with the idea of staying or going, Ted looked as though he was about to break a mold months in the making, but then Dave stepped in – turning his attention elsewhere.

"Boss." The large man called calmly. Ted barely glanced at him over his shoulder. It was a sign that he could now speak. "Your father's downstairs waiting."

"Tell him to set an appointment." Ted replied coldly as he drew his eyes back over to Cody.

Batista fell silent, before piping in again. "He's entertaining some visitors who've come by to speak to you." A pause ensued. "The heads of the Orton and McMahon Clan are here."

To this, Ted turned completely to Batista – his back facing Rhodes. "What the fuck are they doing here?" He spoke darkly as he did purposefully.

Dave stood unmoved. He was used to this sight. The Boss, after all, hated to be interrupted whenever he was near Cody. And to make matters worse, he was being interrupted by three men he'd rather see dead. "Intel tells me that they're here about the upcoming March."

"We've already got our part covered." Ted looked on with a deeper iciness. "I've paid for the staffing and security of the venue. Anything further can be dealt with by the former clan Head."

"But the meeting is about the March." Dave spoke informatively, "And anything related to the March falls on the shoulders of the _current_ Head of the Clan." He stressed.

Ted drew in a deep breath before glancing over his shoulder to spot a still fast asleep Cody Rhodes. His gaze softened for a moment before hard-boiling to the sight of Batista's face, "I'll take care of it." He spoke venomously, "Relay that to my father and his guests. I won't leave this room until Cody wakes up. "

Dave stared silently for a while before letting out a long sigh. "Ted," He called as an implication of a desire to speak on a man-to-man level. Ted's cooling glare showcased the blonde's compliance. "I don't trust him" To 'him', Dave flicked his chin up over to the bed behind DiBiase. Knowing to what Dave was motioning, Ted did not relinquish his stare. Instead, it only got harsher by the time Dave returned his dark auburn eyes. "I'm serious Ted. Ever since he's come here, you've thrown caution to the wind time and time again. You're the Head of this Clan, yet at the drop of a hat you disregard your own safety just to ensure his. Every time you let him even a foot outside this house, he runs and hides in the shadows of other territories. This time it took us a week to find him, and guess what, he was near _Orton's_ turf!" Dave stepped closer towards his Boss – hesitating to truly enter Cody's room. "He is not an official part of this Clan Ted, and his own Clan is extinct. If you keep him around much longer, he is going to be the end of you."

Ted did not reply instantly. Instead, he let the moment sit and fester, and then finally grabbed hold of Dave – making the leviathan think twice about what he had just said. After a long second had gone by, Ted moved closer to Dave so as to get a good view of the man, before gently resting a tense hand on the upper left side of the older man's suit.

"Don't ever speak to me about Cody."

To the magma dripping off the tails of DiBiase's hard words, a chill crept down Batista's spine. Ted was a lot of things, and on the top of that list was the persona of being a skilled killer. If it had something to do with displeasing Cody Rhodes, it was dead. Unless of course it was Randy Orton. Then it was simply just a matter of time.

Knowing all this, Batista still tried to get his fears across. He could smell death on Cody. The boy's family had died in a massive police raid not too long ago. Every friend he had met a gruesome end. All this happened leaving Cody as the sole survivor.

"Ted –" He caught himself "Boss. I don't think you fully grasp all of this." Ted's frown deepened. "The March is quickly approaching!" He shouted "A lot of gates are going to be opened and the lines between territories will start to blur." Despite the growing dark aura, Batista pressed on. "You can only keep those you fully know and trust close to you! Cody wasn't in this house for ten years! Who knows what Or—"

The cold kiss of a hand gun pressed deep into Batista's right cheek. He froze mid-sentence, mid-breath, before daring to look at the weapon. It was _GoldDust_. A fully loaded Remington Magnum .44 handgun. Ted's favorite gun, and the only inanimate relic left behind by the obliterated Rhodes Clan. The nickname came solely from the fact that everything – from the hide of the gun down to the very bullets – were made from solid gold. Due to the rarity of its ammunition, DiBiase rarely used _GoldDust_, but still kept this handgun on his person at all times. Due to his desperation, Dave hadn't recalled that fact, but now here he stood – boundaries overstepped and _GoldDust_ piercing the soft flesh of his cheek. Dave "The Animal" Batista was and is never one to fear death. He did not in this moment either. However, as he looked into Ted's fiery baby blues, he felt a fear of something. He felt a fear of holding the knowledge that like the many past victims, he would be killed right here all in the name of protecting the sleeping brunette. In the eyes of the man he swore a blood oath to, The Animal clearly saw an emptiness that believed in only one thing - the survival of Cody Rhodes.

Dave's fear in this moment was simply how right he was.

"W-Where am I?" Both Dave and Ted looked over to spot Cody sitting up on the large bed. Instantly, everyone reset their current positions. Ted tucked _GoldDust_ away in the space between his pants and his shirt – letting his jacket fall and conceal the weapon behind his back – and returned his attention to Cody. Dave stood in the foreground before deciding that now would be the best time to proactively take his leave.

"You're at the mansion." Ted spoke – trying desperately to hide his joy. He shifted a foot forward, only to quickly retreat. This was close enough. "Dave brought you here last night." A small smile leaked over onto his face. He never wanted it to, but there it was.

Cody looked to him with an expression that was trying it's hardest to gather lost thoughts. Eventually his mind caught up, and then he did what he was always did. He shuffled off the bed in a series of rapid motions and pasted his back up against the wall behind – furthering the distance stood between himself and Ted.

"Cody—" Ted spoke, only to quickly wish that he had not said a word. If these few months had taught him nothing else, he knew for certain that when Cody's walls went up no one should speak until he had calmed down.

"You!" He growled in harsh disdain. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Cody shouted viciously with hatred and anger distorting his once peaceful face. The blonde watched the horror show in sorrow. "I thought we had a deal!"

Ted weighed in his options and found no way out of responding. "Yes Cody, you're right. We had a deal." He started off calmly, gingerly taking a single step forward. Rhodes backed further into the wall – scared and angry all at the same time. It forced the blonde to stop moving or hoping all together. "But I told you to stay within my territory." His voice hinged on a harsh wave of seriousness. A friend is not what Cody saw Ted as, and so Ted decided to wash his hands of that image for the time being. "You_ promised_ me that you'd stay within my territory."

"You're a liar Ted!" Cody spat back from the safety of the wall. "You're a fucking liar! You never intended to let me go—Is this fun to you?!"

The last part threw Ted off balance, but he did his best to cope. Keeping to the lines of calmness, he replied "No" as assuredly as he could. This was as far away from fun as the afterlife was from the world of the living.

"Do you like doing this to me Ted?!" Cody pressed on, trampling madly over Ted's good-heart. "Do you like to just let me go only to send your fucking dogs to fetch me?! Do you like making promises you can't keep?!"

That was it. That was the land mine that blew apart Ted's resolve. He immediately dropped his tone to the kind used on insubordination. "I don't break my promises Cody! I never have!"

"Then who the hell was I waiting on for ten years?!" The truth struck hard, and it humbled DiBiase immediately. Cody, at this point, was now in tears. "Stop lying to me Ted! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of you!" The brunette's voice broke. "Why don't you just leave me alone?!"

The blonde felt his heart racing a mile a minute. His breathing turned to jagged edged swords that slit open his chest with every breath of air he inhaled. His body felt heavier, like a weight had just been added to his shoulders. This, Ted came to conclude, was realization. It was cold like people said it would be, and his body – wanting to do one thing – froze in its embrace.

There was quite simply no end to this.

"…" Banished from the situation, Ted's tongue disappeared back down his throat. There was nothing more to be said. There could nothing more. "You're my best friend Cody." He spoke almost completely to himself with saddened eyes facing the floor.

"You're nothing to me." Ted flinched to the harshness of Cody's words. His eyes dared not look upon the blackened hate housed deep in Rhodes' cerulean orbs. "Just go away." His voice crumbled to a mere whisper as venomous as a snake's.

Wordlessly, Ted turned and walked stiffly to the open doorway, hoping that Cody would say something to make him stop moving and stay here. With each grating step, his hopes grew stronger until they finally turned into fruitless wishes and desires that saw him wanting to say something against his own rules. However, nothing came to mind as all DiBiase could think of was how much further Cody would hate him for what he found himself hoping for.

All too soon he had reached the door. Once there, he thought of taking one last look back at Rhodes, but his neck wouldn't move. His eyes would not shift. Nothing at all obeyed, and so he took the door in hand and set to close it, only to meet with another debate.

Close it and seal Cody in. Or leave it wide open to continue with this game of cat and mouse.

When Cody's eyes finally took up arms to face the spot where Ted once stood, he found the door opened halfway.

* * *

><p>Not too many people are aware (and if you're one of them, count yourself as damn lucky), but a morgue does not carry a scent. If anything, there is no scent at all, which maddens the human mind into conjuring up a foul scent. Therefore, on a first trip to a morgue, everyone – no matter who they think they are – gets slightly nauseated. Put off is more the correct term. Uncomfortable yet curious describes it best. People who see the inside of a morgue for the first time unwillingly notice everything and burn it all into their memory. From the bland paint on the walls, to the silver coating on everything metal, to the suffocating stagnant air clogging the room making it even tighter, all the way to the very juxtaposition of watching a live person simply being in the same room as a field of dead bodies – every piece of information, every damning detail is recorded on a first time trip to this house of the dead.<p>

For Detective Chris Jericho that fact stood quite true. He was twenty two when he first came into a morgue. Being one of the investigating officers ,he had already seen the dead body back at the crime scene, but for the blonde seeing that same body covered in the scars of a thorough autopsy, and lying still atop a metal tray (presented like a piece of meat ready for serving) unnerved him. For the sake of records, he quietly watched as the mortician explained his findings – moving each body part deemed necessary to further explain the circumstances – but soon fell victim to the overwhelming stale air that quickly destroyed all the oxygen in his body. The last thing, on that fateful day, that Detective Chris Jericho remembers is that his eyes opened to the sight of the waiting room to see Jason hovering over him, and Adam close beside. Brett Hart was the only one able to remain inside that closed room.

It would be many years later before Chris realized that a morgue had no real scent. Before that knowledge, however, his mind was always telling him what a room full of dead bodies should smell like, and that overload knocked him squarely unconscious. As time passed by, Jericho became more accustomed to the sight of a morgue, and as such did not react as badly (or at all) as his cohort in one Evan Bourne.

"Sorry" Bourne whispered huskily as he took the rag being handed to him. Armed with the piece of cloth, he wiped his mouth as best he could while still trying to keep in check the next oncoming hurl. "I-I'm good now—" Instantly he tightened his grip on his stomach and nearly suffocated himself by holding the rag over his mouth and nose. His large eyes closed shut as they rolled away beneath his lids in an effort to dissipate the nausea. The idea proved fruitful.

"Is he going to be alright?" Spoke the Englishman wearing the semi-plastic poncho suit.

Jericho looked over to the mortician before looking back to Bourne. "He's been better."

Finding delight in his own cynicism, Jericho craved a cruel smile on his face. Bourne –having found the strength to lift his eyelids – glared at the man called 'partner'. The comment gave Evan a second wind as he quickly realigned himself and walked over to the operating table. The blonde Detective watched as the smaller man proudly resurfaced at the foot of the tray (where he shyly acknowledged the mortician only to get a handful of no response from the dry Englishman), but soon found himself tingling with a strange sense of agitation.

He needed a smoke.

Instinctively he reached into his coat pocket and extended his fingers as far as they would allow. They all touched the base of the pockets and found them both to be empty. A slight wind of panic blew over him as he spread all ten fingers, and nearly insect-like, felt out every corner and nook of his large coat pockets. Nothing. It was at that moment that it dawned on the Detective that he had to leave his pack (along with nearly everything else) at the front due to regulations barring everyone from bringing such personal items into the room.

/Shit./ Desperate, Jericho tried hard to think. Being the lead Detective on this case meant he had to stay for this autopsy and document the findings at a later time. It was the law, which meant that leaving the room and retrieving his pack of cigarettes was out of the question. Then again, it was not as though he could smoke here to begin with. The morgue had a no smoking policy for obvious reasons. After all, no one wanted to join the dead stored here. Conclusively then, Jericho could not leave this room.

Right on cue however, a light bulb went off in his head forcing Jericho's eyes to crack over and spot Evan. His new rookie partner. In that instant, an idea formed as he saw an escape route. There were two Detectives on this case. No one said anything about needing the presence of both Detectives during the morticians report. He could have his smoke after all. Without any hesitation, Jericho turned quietly to leave the room.

"Detective." The Englishman called dryly from his spot, stopping Chris immediately. "A little help please." The blonde looked over his shoulder to spot the mortician trying to steady a near passed out Evan Bourne.

Damn but that kid was annoying, was the only thing Jericho could think as he begrudgingly headed over to aid his partner. His eyes glanced to Evan thoughtlessly only to linger upon finding the man's facial muscles unnaturally relaxed and his overall expression drained of life and color.

"Shit, he's passing out." The Detective stated as he and the mortician dragged Bourne's lifeless body out of the room, placing it gently on the bench used for waiting. After finally steadying the younger man (having been forced to give up on setting him upright, and instead, stretch him out completely over the length of the bench) both the Detective and the black-haired mortician headed back into the autopsy room.

It was only once both men had settled into their respective positions did any words get spoken.

"He's in his second month, right?" The Englishman spoke as he grabbed a set of gloves sitting in a box to his right.

"Third." Jericho replied stiffly as he took the gloves now being offered to him.

"He's never been in a morgue before?"

Chris shrugged nonchalantly, "He transferred in from fraud and identity theft. Bodies aren't really a commodity in that department."

The mortician brought up a wiry smile onto his face. "He's a little too cute for this job don't you think?"

The Detective sharpened his stare on the taller man ahead, before shaking his head to the mortician's growing smile. "Is there anyone in this shithole who isn't batting for the wrong team?"

"At least we're batting." The Englishman scoffed arrogantly. "You on the other hand aren't even batting for any team."

"I don't play well with others, Wade." Jericho spoke under a harsh breath as he shoved his hands down the latex gloves. He was getting more and more agitated with the fact that he couldn't smoke, and that this small talk was simply lengthening the time he had to spend here not smoking. "Now hurry up and get this over with."

Wade looked on a bit stunned at Chris' harsh reaction, before deciding to put on his own work persona. "Jane Doe here is of Hispanic descent with a facial structure that suggests a small Czech background as well. She was around five foot nine – which leads me to believe that she could have been a model – in great shape at a weight of just 57 kilos, and possibly in her early thirties. She died at around twelve thirty am. Cause of death," He spoke whilst gently pulling downward on the body's lower lip, so as to show the insides of her mouth. Supple lips chapped due to the harshness of a stubborn winter were still coated with a lingering black stain, despite having already been cleaned for processing, "was asphyxiation. She was dead before she hit the ground."

With eyes steadied on the girl's face, Jericho spoke, "Her teeth are broken." He slightly tilted his head, "No dental records then."

"Yeah. Fingerprints should identify her in the next hour or so. But her teeth…" Wade glanced back to the body. "That's post-mortem. A result of the fall." He pulled a small bowl into Jericho's line of sight. In the mix of watered blood swam tiny specks of white –some smaller than others, but each jagged the same. "We found them embedded in the tissues of her mouth. A few made it to the trachea. None were in the stomach, which rules out the possibility of her teeth being knocked in prior to her death." He rested the silver bowl back in its original spot. "She'd have to be stood upright or set on her knees at a slight angle, plus be able to still move the muscles of her esophagus for that to have occurred. And that's impossible considering the way she was killed."

Jericho let out a small sigh, before bringing his eyes back to the sturdy face of Wade Barrett. "She got motor oil poured down her throat."

"Not poured." Wade scoffed slightly. "Forced." He reached around to pick up a thin folder sitting atop a nearby shelf. "Your partner Evan had originally put that in the report."

Jericho cautiously took the folder as Wade handed it to him. He wordlessly flipped through it to find some of Evan's braille-like inscriptions attached to the majority of the crime scene photos of the victim. On picture number fifty two – where the only thing taken was an off-kilter snapshot of the victim's neck and the start of her shoulders – marked in a red ink were the words

**'Take a look at the bulge'.**

"Bulge?" Chris asked a bit perplexed, before placing his eyes to the victim on the area that had been pointed out. From an anterior view, Jericho saw nothing. However, when he turned his eyes to the same angle as the one in which the picture had been taken, there it was. A slight, yet still woefully incorrect bulge that unnaturally pushed up the base of the woman's neck (the part that normally sinks away into the junction of the clavicle).

"We examined it, unbiased, and discovered a series of linear marks craved down nearly all sides of her throat. At the base, more to the left," Wade gently touched the area. The Detective followed it with his eyes "is where we found a deep circular ring that had been nearly devoured by a rapid infection occurring after death. When analyzed, the ring matched the imprint of the tip of a steel pipe. The kind used to reinforce the frame of a motorbike."

"So they stuffed that down her throat until it lodged there, and then funneled a tank full of high grade oil down the pipe." Wade nodded solemnly, as Jericho returned to an upright stance. "We didn't find a lone pipe anywhere near the crime scene."

"Those marks I was talking about," Jericho looked to the mortician, "They run both ways."

"Shit." He growled. "Killer must've pulled it out." He glanced to the body, "Fucking animals" Clambered out in a low mumble as his eyes trailed back to Barrett. Almost immediately, a spark ignited inside his over-worked and under-smoked mind. "What did the rape kit come back as?"

"Negative, but she had multiple semen still lingering inside. We had it checked out, but it came back expired having been there for more than a week." The mortician slid his attention to the girl's face. "The bastard didn't care about sex. To him, the poor woman must have just been meat on a butcher block."

The Detective remained silent as his mind worked through the facts and the possibilities. There was a lot to calculate as well as to sieve through for calculation. For starters, he had to find an answer for the why having been given a brief synopsis of the how. Jericho hated why solely because it always had a way of letting the criminal escape with either mild burns, or completely unscathed. It was only because of that reason that Jericho became hardened with the mantra of getting the why entirely answered before even presenting a case to his superiors. It was for that reason that Chris Jericho, despite the approbations, remained simply as a Detective. At this level, it was always easiest to find the truth about the why, without having to kiss the asses of bullshit politics.

"Chris?" The mortician called Jericho back to the room.

When the Detective came to, he found a sealed package staring back at him. Wordlessly, he took off his gloves, before taking the package and stuffing it in between the tight space separating his arm from his side.

"It's a full report. The front desk should have those fingerprints for you soon." Wade sighed loudly as he shoved his naked hands into his pockets. "Good luck."

Jericho scoffed, hardening the staidness on his face. "I don't need that shit." He turned away. "I need a smoke."

* * *

><p>Making a rather late debut, the sun finally peeked over the forgotten rooftop of the dirt road motel. However, by the time the honey-kissed rays began scorching that piece of dry earth and land, he was already gone. Him and his companion.<p>

There was a truck outside. He had been eyeing it ever since he stepped foot on this forgotten speck of the Earth. It was a 2001 Chevy Trailblazer; A symbol of American patriotism and ability to withstand the changes of time. Its skin looked to once be the color of metallic black, but after years of abuse, it had been sanded down to a jagged collage of original coating and exposed metal underneath. The facial features took a heavy beating as well, with its one missing eye and completely non-existent fender, but overall he could tell the truck was in good shape. It had four tires and a working engine. That's all he needed to know.

The motel owner –a tiny-sized hag well past her expiration date – owned the place along with her grounds man grandson, who looked like the classic waste of time. A round face covered in irrational tufts of beard, a tub of lard protruding ahead of him in all major directions (blocking his view of his lower half) a high-pitched shrill where a voice gone through puberty should have been, and a bad case of word diarrhea. The only thing going for the sore spot was that he had a rather unforgettable nickname. Brodus Clay. George "Brodus Clay" Murdoch . Society – especially where he had come from – would have used people like George as scape-goats and target practice for their young ones (or just for those days gone horribly wrong and a loaded magnum was all they had for stress relief), but he did not care about those trivial things. All he cared about was the Chevy Brodus decided to leave unattended after escorting some highway trash onto the property he did not own, with the offer to stay for free in a once condemned motel room. Murdoch took the keys, showing that maybe something other than lice lived beneath that thin set of black strands atop his head. However, he forgot to lock the truck, thinking no one would want to break into this piece of crap.

Problem was, he wanted to break into it. More so, that Chevy – an American dignitary reduced to a former shell of its glory – provided the escape he had been staking out for. Being in the armpit of nowhere, this shanty motel had access to a never-busy highway which meant no transportation for at least fifty miles. His companion– he knew – could not handle fifty miles on foot. That, and the fact that they were both targets for the kind of world that would shoot live people at a public gun range, only to walk out without quarrel, made for a hefty piece of reasoning. Fifty miles on foot would have been impossible. However, along came horny Brodus Clay with two creatures under the flabs of his naked arms and a working truck to provide a way out.

The sun rose to find the Chevy cruising in agony down the forgotten highway. The moment the desert lit up with the full luminescence of the blazing yellow sky-ball, the truck found itself on the harsher end of once belonging to George Murdoch, as well as being a Chevrolet. Just barely thirty miles in and the vehicle began to overheat. To the sputtering sound, followed by a spaz of jolts all originating from the engine, the driver pulled over badly onto the side of the road. Once halted, the vehicle died. A moment of trying to restart to no avail went on by before he threw open the car door and stepped outside. His heavy heels crushed the ground below like it was made from brittle ice with each step he took. The smoke emitting from the grill told him to look no further. The engine was dead.

In retrospect to his new found – and hardly desired –situation, he sighed in defeat before resting his back against the hood of the vehicle. However, in an instant, the immediate heat exuding from the dead engine threw him off before he got too comfortable. Another long sigh came out, but did nothing to calm him. Instead, it simply agitated his nerves forcing him to yank out the pamphlet in his pocket and stare religiously at it for a grasp on comfort. Once satisfied, he returned the paper to its home, and with arms tucked onto his sides, he turned to face the interior of the vehicle.

It was not long before his green eyes landed on the sleeping kid propped up uncomfortably in the passenger seat. The desert sun – now at full capacity – drove its spears directly into the vehicle and onto the kid's smooth face. Annoyed, the kid turned away (still with eyes closed) and huddled closer to the black trench coat strewn over his body as a make-shift blanket –a few wandering strands of his unkempt jet black hair sweeping lightly over his forehead. The whole sight brought a small smile to his face as he looked up to the sky momentarily to rid his mind of useless thoughts. The truck was dead – he knew it would be, just hoped it could last until he got to somewhere less populated by open desert and desert critters – so what was the next step?

A map. As bad as Brodus Clay was as a self-proclaimed co-owner (and possibly a grandson seeing that there weren't any pictures of him in the old lady's office), to navigate this strip of dry land even he would need a map. Even if Brodus used it as decoration, the piece of written GPS was bound to be in the Chevy. Most likely in the glove box – which after a few hard punches, broke open, and was where the map ended up being. He pulled out the long sheet and opened it atop the still hot (now external thanks to the sun) hood. His eyes ran rapidly over the terrain, and every now and again his index finger would slide over the surface as he drew out an unmarked path for himself. Looking at the entire city like this told him that there would be a gas station just five miles ahead in a north-west direction. Had this old clunker pressed on with some kind of determination, it would have reached the station and lived to see another couple of miles. But that was past argument. Five miles, according to Brodus' decorative ornament, was where their next ride was.

The man felt a little relieved by this. Not dying in the desert heat looked a lot more real than it did five minutes ago. However, he knew of a slight problem. The kid was still sleeping beneath his jacket. It was not his fault really. Just years of barely getting a few hours of sleep had finally worn him out. Even so though, their problem did not lessen in any way, and now turned five measly miles into a number close to two hundred. He thought about leaving the kid with the _Jackal_. It was a nice thought to have, but it was a complete lie. The kid – despite their situation – kept to some form of innocence and naivety found in the clueless drones who sat in the gray space between law and hell. That said, any threat coming along could easily—

He decided to wait until the kid woke up.

The Chevy came equipped with a case of beer that Clay had forgotten in the busted trunk (that had to be crow-barred open), and a half of a convenience store's turkey sandwich still in its original packaging. Propped in the reclined driver's seat, the man took a long drink of beer before quickly moving on to another. He unwrapped the packaging and left the sandwich out on the hood (atop the map) to microwave naturally beneath the sun. By the time the kid woke up, it would be steamy and probably even grilled at the edges. A sense of calm suddenly overcame him as he downed the rest of his second can. He grabbed a hold of the _Jackal_ , pointing it directly ahead of him as if to aim at the nothingness that sat on the other side of the dirty windshield. Upon inspection, he found the _Jackal_ covered in nicks, scratches and three distinct dents –some very direct evidence of years of battle. In a way, he could not help but compare his _Jackal_ to the familiarity of this American truck. Both had suffered at the hands of their owners –paid the ultimate price time and time again – and both had been seen by more faces than the brain could properly store. Yet, despite the hardships that come with being owned by a world-class assassin, the _Jackal_ did not give up on him. Not once. Not ever.

Once more he looked over to the kid sleeping in the cup of the stiff passenger seat. His face had been half-covered by the large jacket, but it clearly faced the driver. The man thought for a moment about what he had gotten himself into, but quickly got rid of the thought having come to the conclusion that it was all too late. He probably did have the chance to give up, run or die off in a desert, but ten years takes away more than just the color of someone's hair. It took away the chance to be like this Trailblazer by instead converting every opportunity into the strength of his _Jackal_. Therefore, like his _Jackal_ –unlike the Chevy – he would not give up. Not once. Not ever. With that, his eyes returned to the large weapon, before he rested it back in its holster. Another can of beer hissed loudly as he cracked it open.


	4. Tri

Despite there being four distinct men in the current picture, Ted DiBiase could not help but think of how well the proverb 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' fit with what sat before him. After all, excluding Dave Batista (who stood rigidly behind the head of the lawn table) and himself (whom Dave stood behind guarding), there was not a man here that Ted DiBiase did not wish immediate and painful death upon. Starting the gauntlet of such a horrific mindset was the man seated directly ahead of him at the end of the large glass table. Randy Orton. The head of the Orton Clan.

For three generations, the Orton Clan rightfully owned the title as being the _Devil's Clan._ The title did not come only from their place of residence – that happened to be set up just east of the DiBiase's in a part of town duly called Hell's Gate (a name that came about even before the Orton Clan got there) – but rather, the Orton family's well-known cruelty to all forms of mankind was the hot piece of iron that had served to brand them. Everyone caught in the sphere of The Black Shield (law abiding or not) held the common knowledge that under no circumstances were you to become involved with the Orton Clan. Naturally, being a criminal organization, there were the disobedient who either felt they had a strong handle on their issues, or could manipulate their circumstances to how they saw fit. Naturally, most of those fickle fools have perished under the cruel ferocity of the _Devil's Clan._ However, as mean-streaked as the Clan was, their pet name and their business conduct were not what truly stapled them into the fabric of Black Shield history. Rather, it was all thanks to the most vicious of the lot – Randy Orton – that the Orton Clan became so well-known. On his eighteenth birthday, Randy Orton ascended to the top of his Clan's food chain by becoming the youngest Clan Head in the history of The Black Shield. Never had any future Clan Head taken up their position as swiftly as Randy did, and he did so atop the corpses of over a thousand people. Prior to their east-side location, the _Devil's Clan_ never had much of a place to call their own due to their inept ability to restrain their lust for mass murder and genocide. However, at eighteen, Randy took it upon himself to change that issue, and in one night wiped out the residents of Hell's Gates as well as the army he had amassed to aid him – taking root in one of the roughest parts of town.

Naturally, Ted had his reservations about how much of Randy's heroic tales he would allow himself to believe, but no one could truly deny how fearsome and awe-inspiring a man like Randy Orton was. The man embodied everything dark and devious lurking in the souls of human beings. And he did so without ever paying the price. Despite all that, DiBiase made it his sole purpose in life to deny Randy even a drop of his admiration. After all, unlike the former residents of Hell's Gate, ten years could never just vanish overnight –no matter how much he wished it to.

A flood of angered thoughts came immediately to DiBiase's young mind, forcing him to cease glaring at the ever-nonchalant expression of Randy, and bend his line of sight slightly to his lower left. There sat the second man to run Ted's gauntlet of hatred. His own father, Ted DiBiase Senior. The relationship between both father and son was not as simple as many had been led to believe. And what many had been led to believe was that Ted Junior and Ted Senior held an unbreakable father-son relationship, rivaled only by the kind Orton held with his father (the only difference being that Ted kept his father in the business of the Clan, whilst Orton had shipped his father away to another state to keep him from ever interfering). However, nothing could be further from the truth. Ted DiBiase despised his father for many different reasons –the longest lasting being that Ted Senior would often refer to his protégé as his 'only' son. Mrs. DiBiase gave birth to two sons. The maid gave birth to Ted. Such acceptance into the main household would normally be welcomed with open arms by many, but DiBiase junior held no such regards for the sole reason that he loved his two brothers. He loved the oldest in Marc and looked up to him – even now – just as much as he loved and cared for the second oldest in Bret. Both men had been driven out by their father for the very personal reason commonly classified as love. For that, Ted envied their revere, but his stock immediately rose the day after Bret's funeral. Immediately, he was stripped of being just the mirror-image of Ted Senior and clothed in the many preparations to becoming the new Head of the Clan. Years would pass, and the secrets held between the two – as well as the separate ways of conducting Clan business – served to be the final nail in the coffin for their already strained relationship. For public appearances, the two kept up their smiles and lengthened their hugs. They praised each other and never stopped to take a breath from their kiss-ass friendship until their respective limousines parked in the large garages of their separate homes. Once there, Ted DiBiase forbade contact with his own father for as long as it was necessary or until business saw otherwise. This surprise meeting was not necessary.

"No need to look so disgusted with our presence DiBiase." Ted looked to the voice coming from his lower right. "I assure you, this will not be a waste of your time."

Ted frowned to the apathetic air he could almost see leaking off one Hunter McMahon. The third man in his gauntlet. The leader of the second oldest Clan in the Black Shield – The McMahon Clan.

Before anyone and their runner-up predecessors had even been conceived, there once lived two men on opposite sides of the world. One was a Russian native who was a highly decorated member of the KGB – and subsequent Head of his own Clan – named Fritz Von Erich. The other was USA's own Secretary of Defense and also the Head of the McMahon Clan in Vincent Kennedy McMahon Senior. Both men founded and started what became a staple industry in the crime world –even more higher ranked than the mafia and Russian mob – and came about the name 'Black Shield' as a direct defiance to the gold shield badges their predator law enforcers sported around with. Fast forward a few decades and Vince McMahon Junior takes complete ownership of the McMahon Clan immediately following the death of his father. On the other hand, Fritz Von Erich (upon relocating to the United States following the total collapse of the Soviet empire) is the sole Von Erich in his Clan having lost seven sons for – allegorically speaking – every one of his greatest seven sins he had committed.

Moving along to a few more decades, Vince McMahon creates a staple product in the Black Shield. The blood contract is formulated with the ideal sentiment, in that; anyone who signs it is to be the bodyguard of the Head of a Clan and/or their children for as long as the Clan permits it. The contract got its blunt name because originally it was signed in the bodyguard's blood. Shortly after making such a historical donation to the Black Shield, Vince gets married to Linda McMahon and has both a son – Shane – and a daughter – Stephanie – as the future of the Clan. Shane, however, becomes a sore disappointment being of softer stock, and is soon executed after starting a fruitless rebellion against his family's way of life. Shane never had the murderous intent necessary to both survive in the world of crime and become a leader in it. Stephanie, however, did have such intents as well as the right proportions of brain, beauty, and business savvy. Under her practice regime (a staple occurrence where the future leader is, at age eighteen, given a week of leadership over the Clan and then graded on the performance), Stephanie put the McMahon family on the map by making them a choice donor for death contracts. These contracts are a branch off from the tree known as blood contracts in which the world's top assassins (accessed only by the McMahon Clan; a genius way of gaining power made solely possible by Stephanie's ingenuity) are contacted having had their names written directly below the name of the person they are to kill. Much like the blood contract, death contracts are both expensive (not a real problem for crime lords) and need to be approved by the Head of The Black Shield in Fritz Von Erich.

For this reason, many are put towards surprise upon discovering that the current Head of the McMahon Clan – Hunter – was once a name written on the death contract. The contract was breached by the assassin who had been assigned for the job and in turn was handed over to another appointed assassin whose sole order was to kill the traitor upon sight. Hunter had been mysteriously brought into the McMahon family and raised as part of the family until his late teens. Once at that age, he was given a rare opportunity – life outside the binding walls of the Black Shield. Hunter took the chance to run, but soon returned a new man with honed skills and knowledge far beyond his years. Proud of the blonde's achievements, Vince had Hunter marry his daughter and convinced the Black Shield to waive his daughter's right to the throne by handing it over to Hunter when the time came. The time came rather quickly as Vince died twelve months after Hunter came into power. Some speculate that he had killed his father in law for the power. Some feel that Stephanie – being a spitting image of her ruthless father in every possible way save gender – orchestrated her father's death for the very same reason. Regardless, the reality of it was that Bret _'The Hitman'_ Hart was the one who killed Vince during a secret police raid.

The people currently sitting at his table were all already aware of this salient fact - just as they were aware of Ted's growing impatience with their presence.

"You're already wasting my time Hunter." Ted snapped in annoyance. "But since you took the trouble to bother me" He leaned back loftily in the large chair – folding his arms across his hidden diaphragm "I'll allow you three stooges the chance to entertain me with your fodder."

"Theodore!" Snarled the only family member at this table of horror. Ted lolled his eyes lazily over to the man he was told he mirrored. "You should have some more respect! These two are fellow Clan Heads! At least consider the gesture they're making having come here to see you personally!"

Ted drew his arrogant stare over to the two men ahead of him (one more so to his right than the other) and frowned slightly. "Gesture considered. You now all have five minutes to get the fuck outta my face."

"Whoa there Teddy." Randy spoke with a light chuckle behind his wicked sneer. Ted tensed in agitation to forgo the idea of emptying _GoldDust_ right in the black heart and empty head of Orton . As much as he wanted Randy dead, an unprovoked attack would mean the end of the DiBiase Clan due to the war that would surely follow. And war meant carnage. Carnage meant a possibly dead Cody Rhodes. As much as Ted wanted Randy to die, today and these circumstances were not the ideal conditions for such an incident to occur. "You better curb that filthy mouth of yours before I come over there and soil it even more with my—."

"Enough!" Hunter intervened slightly enraged, before turning away from Randy and facing Ted with a stern face. "It's clear no one wants to be here, but if you two could unwind your panties then this discussion will end a lot faster."

Knowing that to be the truth, and desiring such a result Ted sighed under a harsh breath. "What brings you to my mansion?"

Hunter wiped away the hubris DiBiase threw at him like cream pie by presenting his usual light smile which read 'I'll shake hands now but turn your back to me for one second and I'll kill you'. It was this inept business smile that partially served to showcase Hunter's ruthless background – no matter how much the thousand dollar Armani suit tried to cover it up.

"Two words DiBiase. The March."

Ted raised an eyebrow, as he thought shortly upon it. "We already discussed the DiBiase Clan's position in it. We will provide the funding necessary to garner both the safest location as well as the best protection the world has to offer." His frown returned for a different reason. "I thought-"

"You shouldn't and you thought wrong." Orton slid in venomously with his cold gray-blue orbs locked onto Ted's light cerulean eyes as if it were a target being aimed at by a heat-seeking missile. "Well," His lips curved to the bend of a wicked smirk, "It's not like anyone ever expects much from a bastard child."

To the remark, Ted snapped "Dogs aren't allowed to bark on my turf Orton!" before re-directing his attention back to Hunter. "Why are you here about The March? It's already been discussed at last month's meeting with the Heads."

"Well," Hunter started before drawing in a deep breath. "As it turns out, the budget calculations are slightly incorrect."

Ted's frown deepened. "How incorrect?"

"We were off by ten million." Ted glanced over to his left. "It seems our accountant thought it best to stifle the budget because she couldn't comprehend why our bank wanted to transfer such a large sum." The old man scoffed arrogantly. "It might have been best for her to have told the Federal dogs about her suspicions rather than doing the wrong thing and presenting us with an inaccurate estimation."

The story sounded more accurate than their prior calculations. However, it was still just a story in Ted's mind as he wondered about his recently vacationed accountant. For thirty years she never once made a mistake, and never once questioned anything. Why now?

He put down the budding thoughts that crept up in his mind for a moment, having decided to return to the situation at hand. "Ten million would turn a lot of heads" He spoke offhandedly with the knowledge that it was best to present a calm front in the face of such a huge problem. Especially when the eyes watching belonged to three men he would sell his soul to have killed (if only he never had Cody to protect). "Well," He spoke refreshed, "in sight of this unfortunate miscalculation, I suppose the only thing I can do now is first thank you all for bringing it to my attention."

Warily and completely thrown off-guard, the two outsiders to the DiBiase territory spat out the words "you're welcome" as though it did not belong. And it did not, seeing that they never expected Ted DiBiase to be so calm about such a damning mistake – to the point where he even thanked them for bothering to bring it up at all.

"And" Ted spoke rigidly, letting the word hang alone for a moment. "I will take a look at those prior calculations and present my answer at the next meeting of the Heads."

"Next meet—Fuck that!" Randy shouted as he threw his hands down heavily on the table – cracking the hard surface with his brute force. "This isn't one of your loans Ted, this is the fucking _March_ we're talking about!" His voice rose. "Any slip up – even in the slightest – can end up being the death of all of us on that one fucking day!" He threw his index directly towards Ted. "You need to drop your pompous act and write that damn check today or else I'll—"

"Or else you'll _what?_" Ted asked contemptuously.

Randy fumed before opening his mouth. However, Hunter's hand swiftly went over it – clogging whatever the brunette meant to say. "I apologize for Randy's outburst," He spoke swiftly "but I can't say that I don't agree with him in part." The fake smile thinned on his face. "Even your father agrees Ted." The thought alone angered Ted even more. "We need that ten million in order to properly carry out the March." Hunter removed his hand from Orton's face – successfully finding that he had somehow managed to silence the younger man. "It's for the good of all of us. Plus it's no skin off your back seeing that the DiBiase Clan is the richest Clan in the Black Shield."

That, Ted knew, was not Hunter's usual brand of flattery. Rather, that was simple truth. In the history of the Black Shield, no Clan had been as wealthy as the DiBiase Clan. The main reason for their fortuitous success was their undying resolve to keep everything close to family. Of course, for many in the Clan, that did not in any way count the newly acquired Cody Rhodes. Ted Senior believed the man to be a curse upon them seeing that he came from the sweet-talking poor-man group (his words) known as the Rhodes Clan (Cody's family) who happily sold their youngest for a little taste of the high life. Dave Batista also thought of Cody as nothing more than a bad omen for the DiBiase Clan. His reasons however had less to do with his outlook on societal garnish and more to do with unseen instincts. No one trusted Cody. No one liked Cody. But Ted did. And he always would.

"Ted?" Spoke a gravelly voice from his left. Ted looked up slowly to spot his father's hand resting on his shoulder.

Instantly, he shrugged it off in disgust, before returning his attention to the situation. "I understand." He stood to his feet. Batista reacted by aiding him with the redress of his jacket to his three-piece-suit. "You will hear from me soon." Ted turned to leave.

Randy revved up to pipe in with his own set of parting words, but Hunter stepped in intrinsically. "Will it be a favorable answer?"

Ted paused for a moment as he glanced over his shoulder. "You will know soon enough." He turned away. "And by the way," Once more his eyes rested on the three men stood behind him. "Don't ever come here again without making an appointment with me." His eyes shifted harshly to his father. "By email."

* * *

><p>The matchstick broke after the third unsuccessful strike. Without much thought, Chris threw the broken stick onto the ground below (now slightly warmer than last night thanks to an angry sun) and pondered on his decision-making skills. In all, they had been rather terrible – starting with his choice in brands; Marlboro cigarettes were not exactly the best tasting brand– but not as horrid as his choice to still use matchsticks in an age of lighters. Chris blamed his sadistic side on that fact – maybe he just liked to see the slow-burn of a matchstick and subsequently imprint such an image onto the faces of countless killers, rapists, and other nut job zealots holding a Tommy gun. Watching the trail of a flame dance about on the summit of a metal lighter did not emit that tingly feeling that eroded Chris every time he lit a match. Of course, none of this got him any closer to lighting his latest mistress. Instead, all it did was agitate him even further.<p>

"You got a light?" He asked, in a monotonic voice, of the person to his immediate left.

"I don't smoke Chris." Replied a rather distressed voice. Understandable seeing that the man had just answered this very same question ten minutes ago before they stopped by the convenience store to grab a new box of matches. "And anyway, smoking is bad for your health. Isn't never having a light proof that even the Heavens want you to quit?"

Chris scoffed sarcastically. "I'm not a quitter Evan."

To this Bourne sighed in defeat, mumbled "Not all quitters are bad" before returning to the issue at hand. The front door. "Anyways, according to our sources," He flipped through the small notepad in his hand, "the apartment we're looking for is number five. Landlady's name is Geneviève Mundon. She had her name changed from Vladista when she first came here. She's got two relatives here in the States. One is her older brother George – his real name – who co-owns a rundown motel off the Interstate near the border of Arizona with their grandmother Ms. Anze…Anzehi…An…"

"Anzhelika." Chris stepped in whilst pressing the buzzer once more. "It's pronounced Angelica."

"Oh." Evan spoke – slightly embarrassed at his own incompetence – before returning his eyes to the notepad. "Ms. Mundon is an immigrant and keeps this place below average rent to accommodate other struggling immigrants. She's a savior in this part of town."

"Good for her." Jericho struck the door three times with his fist. "Ms. Mundon, it's the police! Open the door we have a few questions regarding a tenant of yours!" No answer returned to them. "Damn it." He growled before rapping away on the old door once more. "Ms. Mundon this is the police. Open the door!"

"Our victim, identified by fingerprints as Milena Leticia Roucka, was once a former valet and model. She's of both Czech and Costa Rican descent and was thirty three years old. In 2006, she came across the Costa Rican border, leaving her family for America with the promise of modeling. However, once she got here the job fell through, and she was stuck in debt, which unfortunately led her to prostitution."

"Ms. Mundon!" Chris banged the door harder. "Police! Open the door!"

Despite the noise, Evan continued on. "Her finances seemed to have been back on track, but nearly three quarters of it all went to an account in her official name. It was a secure account, and a check on it showed that all withdrawals were made by two men known to the community as Primo and Epico." Evan flipped the page. "No further information could be found about them, but we—"

"Don't you have anything current to say?" Jericho roared from a short distance, "All of that shit is yesterday's news!" The blonde turned his anger to a slightly confused Evan Bourne. He eyed his partner – contemplating if it was worth the trouble to kill him or not – before deciding that he really needed a light. "Ms. Mundon! Open the door now or we will come in by force!"

Evan's eyes widened to the threat, and nearly popped out of his skull when Jericho expertly pulled out his firearm and pointed it to the brass lock. Instantly, Evan pushed Chris aside and promptly knocked the door using the hanging door knocker nailed in the center. "Ms. Mundon?" He called gently. "This is Detective Evan Bourne. I'm accompanied by my partner, Detective Chris Jericho." Chris hissed something vicious in the background, but Evan merely ignored him. "We're with the 18th Precinct and we are here to talk about your tenant. Her name is Milena Leticia Roucka."

A long pause ensued, before the sounds of chains being unlocked came through prior to the door being partly opened. A stern face – defined to razor sharpness yet still frail in both its complexion and its majorly sunken features – looked back with light blue eyes that were both scared but subsequently unafraid. "I don't know Milena." The woman set up to lock the door once more.

Evan caught the closing door and held it there as soundly as he could, without giving off any air of desperation or anger. "Ms. Mundon I presume?" The lady nodded stiffly. "Ms. Roucka…She went by the name Rosa Mendez."

The woman thought for a moment, before opening the door to its fullest. She stood aside. "Come in. It's safer in here."

Evan smiled gently at her. "Thank you Ms. Mundon."

"It's Geneviève." She replied shyly to the Detectives. "Call me Geneviève."

"Thank you Geneviève."

The brunette stepped into the doorway trailed by a highly irritated Chris Jericho. His mistress stayed twined in between his lips as he thought upon all the ways he could make Evan pay for this. The little man had gotten them inside and even managed to woo over such an overly cautious (as seen by the many locks and chains attached to her door) woman, but he had done so at the expense of Jericho. For now, the blonde supposed it to be better to simply take the situation with a grain of salt and focus on the task in hand.

He started by observing the surroundings. A mere glance told him a story he had seen far too often in his long and illustrious career. The walls that converged around them from the doorway to room number five – and possibly beyond this point – clung to both the stench and physical form of an infectious form of mold, which served to strip the caked paint off the wall; leaving them hanging like slivers of flesh dangling from a mangled piece of bone. The wood floor beneath them moaned in agony with every step they took. The irking noise told Jericho that not only was this real aged wood he was treading upon, but it was also in the same class as oak. A warrant would know for sure. Unfortunately, a warrant over a hunch and a dead hooker was near impossible to get.

Once at the door (marked with a poorly nailed brass number five), Ms. Mundon took a moment to look over to the men standing behind her. Jericho drew his eyes from the staircase appearing at the end of the hall, and dropped them down on to the woman. There he held a keener form of his general observation. She was tall – looking at her now – but still not on his height. Naturally she was on Evan's eye-level (as most people turned out to be), but with her frame near anorexic, both men resembled giants in comparison to her. Her slender hands, with their tendons, ligaments and – at the knuckles especially – bones protruding out in all directions, cupped the door knob and turned it after having already inserted the key.

"Rosa stayed here." She spoke timidly as she exposed the barely one hundred square foot box of an apartment. The degrading walls had somehow infected the interior of what was now a victim's place of residence – however the mold stopped behind the door, seemingly afraid to enter a dead girl's room. To the left there was an old couch from the nineteen seventies era, with a small fridge acting as a side-table. Atop the fridge sat a large bottle of Jack Daniels (barely finished), which Chris took a hold of only to put back immediately after spotting the knowing stare he received from Evan.

Naturally, all partnered Detectives had to know most of – if not all of – each other's secrets in order to work together. Evan Bourne was the squeaky clean kind of officer that came by once every thousand-something years. He did have a small history of gambling – counting cards and the like back in his College days– but nothing to write home about. However, as for Chris Jericho, his demons came in every form imaginable – the most notable in his smoking and drinking. Smoking had always been second nature to him, but drinking was the new kid on the block following a rough patch the Detective had suffered. However, fate swept in one day and had Jericho kicking the new kid to the curb – and never looking back.

Despite his triumphant break from alcoholism, every partner he ever had the displeasure of being paired with only had to see him within ten feet of a bottle and their aura would instantly shift to judgmental. In the past, this attitude irked Chris to the point where he nearly beat a partner of his to death for staring at him with such distaste just because he had merely walked by a case of beer. However, a few forced therapy sessions curbed his anger when it came to the sore issue, and soon saw Chris being able to handle those reoccurring situations far more professionally than most. The same went for whenever Evan would frown upon his brutal and self-destructive habits. However, this time – maybe because he was already fuming from being shown-up by a rookie – proved otherwise. This time proved entirely different.

"What?" He snapped at Evan – who now stood at the wall lined with a small counter, broken stove and grimy sink – before removing his stone-cold mistress from his enamel grasp. "I have better tastes asshole." The cigarette crumpled viciously as he shoved it into his pant pocket. He turned his attention to the door beside the fridge and busied himself with the prison-type bathroom located on the other side.

Evan sighed as he returned his gaze to the landlady standing by with her arms folded protectively across her chest. "Geneviève, when was the last time you saw Rosa?"

"Um" With skeletal fingers, she drew back a few disobedient strands of her raven-black hair, imprisoning them behind her large ears. "I don't see lot of the people here, but I would see Rosa every Wednesday."

"Why Wednesday?"

"Because that was the only day she specifically requested to have off." All eyes wandered over to find Chris Jericho staring at the peculiar painting hanging above the sofa. It had a simple white line drawn over a black sheet of torn paper, however despite its far-from-professional attire; the painting had been framed securely with a glass front for protection. "She used it as a day to put money into her account. The one her brothers withdrew from."

Evan frowned slightly as his eyes washed over his partner. "How did you know that?"

Jericho froze his wandering hand midway – successfully stopping himself from removing the painting from the wall – and glanced over his shoulder to Evan. He held his eyes there for a moment before turning around completely and walking over to the two stood at the make-shift kitchen. "Ms. Mundon?"

Geneviève looked to Jericho – notably more ferociously than she did when staring at Evan.

Chris washed off the offense knowing full well that he had aggravated her by not calling her first name, and continued on with his sentence. "Last week, Rosa came by Monday night didn't she?"

The woman frowned a bit as she shifted her eyes to the floor below. Evan looked between the two before deciding it best to keep an eye on the suspect.

"Ms. Mundon?"

"Yes." Fled exasperated from her mouth. "Rosa don't come by any other day, but then she come by Monday to see me. She look so fright—frighten. "Her once shaky voice steadied to a halt. "She told me they were going to kill her."

"Who told her that Geneviève?" Evan intrigued far less rigidly than his partner.

Sunken blue eyes looked over pitifully to Evan before falling to the floor once more. "I don't know. She didn't give name. She just told me that people were going to kill her because she take their money."

Chris folded his arms as his stance relaxed to the situation. His body had finally adjusted to the surroundings. "What happened afterwards? Did she leave you with a message?"

"Um…" She thought, "Yes. She told me to call her brothers on Wednesday and tell them that she couldn't give any more money. She said, tell them that they should leave the country and start new life elsewhere with all the money she sent before"

"Explains why Epico and Primo aren't on the map anymore." Whispered Evan as he inconspicuously took up residence beside Chris.

Jericho voided any form of acknowledgement and pressed on with the interrogation. "Can you recall any of her enemies? Maybe an angry customer? Someone come by to see her?"

"No. No." To add to her sentence, Geneviève shook her head. "Rosa was a…she was top. Top prostitute. Only people with lots of money and power bought her. They put her in hotel room and kept her there for six days, before someone drives her back here on Wednesday."

Chris sighed softly as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. His left hand cringed to the feel of a crushed cigarette near the base of its designated pocket. "And aside from you, did Rosa have any friends?"

To this Geneviève chuckled – bringing up a painfully sad smile to her face. "People like us don't have that kind of luxury. Rosa especially, with her job." Geneviève clung closer to herself. "She said she was…filthy. That people don't like her for that." Her voice went soft. "Maybe that's why people want her dead. Because she dirtied someone."

Chris frowned heavily to the insinuation. Evan stepped in to redirect the investigation. "Thank you Geneviève" He spoke with a hand resting on her shoulder. "Don't worry. We will catch her killer." A smile graced his face, "I promise you."

The smile – although morbidly sorrowful – returned with a tinge of hope. "Thank you. Thank you so much." She placed her hand gently on Evan's shoulder – much to the unmasked disdain of Detective Jericho (who abhorred physical contact with possible suspects and people altogether). "Good luck."

"Thanks." Evan smiled brightly. "Take care Geneviève."

Both Detectives left the apartment leaving Ms. Mundon to stand in the knowing loss of a friend she could not save. Once outside, Jericho took the moment to enjoy the mold-free air and drew in a deep breath. When he had his fill, he returned his stern eyes to find Evan staring back with an odd form of sadness stuck deep in his eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" Jericho inquired harshly.

Evan gave a small smile as he continued down the steps. "Nothing."

Having heard that before in similar situations, Chris drew in another breath as a pre-requisite for speech. "I don' know what they taught you back in fraud, but you shouldn't give people false promises like that Bourne." Evan halted and looked to Jericho. "It's a perfect way to become far too involved."

Evan looked away in thought. "I couldn't just leave her like that. Even though she already knew, seeing us here just confirmed her worst fears. Rosa was her friend you know."

"Rosa was a prostitute who slept with the wrong crowd and owed the wrong people." Evan glared at Jericho as he passed by. "Trust me, you can't go around holding the hands of those directly affected. You can only bring them peace by making sure justice is served."

The brunette thought on the words of his partner, before drawing back a breath of the still morning air. "How did you know Rosa requested Wednesday's off?" To this, Chris ceased moving. Evan took up the locomotive torch and positioned himself beside the blonde. "I never told you. No reports had come in about it. So how did you know that detail?"

Defeated – and unable to not look Evan in the eye – Chris sighed dramatically. "Anonymous tip." He brushed past Evan and continued towards their parked vehicle.

Evan scoffed, and glanced back to the old building, before finally heading off to catch up.

* * *

><p>Seven hundred and fifty five miles.<p>

Translated to eleven hours.

According to the sign posted across from the back-water gas station, this was the total distance from where they were now leaving – on the outposts of Kingman, Arizona – to their next best destination in Amarillo, Texas. The driver of the eighteen-wheeler – packed full with supplies for an industrial plant near Dallas – had offered to take the two hitch-hikers all the way to the Cowboy state, however they had to stay as far north as they possibly could.

Dependent on the previous locations they had been prior to, a well-educated conclusion could be made that the next step after reaching Amarillo would probably be to cross country along the borders of the more mid-eastern states. However, if that were the case, then such a route would end them both in the boundaries of the north-eastern regions. And with the impending March encroaching upon said regions, north-east was the last place he wanted to be. Regardless, the gamble of all this completely stood upon the hopes of an 'if' – _if_ they made it before the March, then their final destination was literally a hair's length away. And doing so would prove a sleepless increase to their already rapid pace. With an accumulation of these thoughts boiling beneath a barrage of unsettled nerves, he quickly eased the young lad off his shoulder so as to pull out the small pamphlet. A one way ticket to freedom sat stapled inside. All he had to do was get the kid there on time. No matter what.

"Hey." The giant-sized driver spoke gruffly from beneath his heavy beard –a great contrast to his near bald scalp. The man turned his heavy jades towards the driver – while instinctively clutching the sleeping kid closer to him. "We've got a long drive ahead of us, so if you want we could grab some grub while the town's still in sight."

"No thanks" He declined stoically – fighting the urge to even touch the _Jackal _(knowing full well that might lead to unnecessary misunderstandings which they could not afford; seven hundred miles was not something easily walked after all).

"Normally I'd stop at a motel or some camp site and get some sleep. And normally I wouldn't care for any protest, but…" He glanced to the two men seated beside him, before refocusing on the late afternoon-kissed road ahead. "I won't be doing that today."

A feeling of relief showered him for but a moment, before his instincts bound him tightly once more. "Thanks." He replied in a voice made from stone.

The driver gave a short laugh. "Don't mention it. I'm in a rush anyways. Feels like you are too." His smile showcased lightly through the thicket of unkempt brown hair surrounding the majority of his face. "Plus, I kinda get this feeling that you two aren't the average hitch-hiker."

They weren't. However, he kept mum on the topic. After all, if he thought clearly about his situation, then certain things began joining the category of being different. For starters, a no-questions-asked truck driver transporting heavy duty liquids to a nameless Dallas industrial plant just happens to show up in an unmapped desert town? That alone warranted suspicion, albeit paling in comparison to their rather smooth journey on a whole. Nevertheless, he decided against pointing out his suspicions and making them known for the sole reason that he had this boy with him. And not until he had been torn limb from limb and cast into the deepest pits of Hell would he allow even one hair on this brunette to be harmed.

The driver glanced to them once more, still smiling, and returned his gaze to the large windshield. "The name's Paul Junior." He scoffed. "I know, weird name for a truckie. People call me Big Show."

"Big Show." The man parroted dryly. "I saw that on the side of your truck." His nerves slowly calmed to the nearly forgotten feel of being a part of such an easy conversation.

Paul heaved a large smile to properly occupy his hefty laugh. "I was gonna call her Big Momma, but the guys said it'd be too cheesy." His smile thinned slightly, "Plus, it'd be outta place, seeing that I ain't got a mom."

Jade eyes stared at Paul with a slight hint of empathy straggling across their gelatinous plains. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." Another laugh escaped – this time, noticeably shorter. "Trucking took over after her death, so I've always been on the road since then. People said I do this so much because I'm trying to cope with having no family to call my own. But, I kinda like the freedom you know" To this he gave the men beside him a quick glance. "No rules and such."

"I understand." He understood. All too perfectly, in fact, and had to take a moment to regroup from saying to what extent.

"So," Paul glanced over his shoulder once more. "Who are you guys anyway?"

Instinctively, his hand tensed to the smooth feel of his holster. In no time at all, he could put a stop to Big Show's prying. However, having realized how much he liked this conversation (and how much he had lacked it for over a decade now), he rid himself of the biased aggression, and for once let the wind carry his sails.

"I'm Mark." His eyes (ferocious as ever) held onto the beady orbs stuck in Big Show's head. When Paul gave no reaction to the name, Mark felt it safe to carry on. "Mark Calaway."

"Know a lot of Marks." Show smiled broadly. "Good men the lot of them."

Mark scoffed slightly. Good men? That was certainly a first.

Paul continued on as he turned the large steering wheel – veering the vehicle to the right. "Who's the kid?" He glanced down to the sleeping brunette positioned in the spot nearest to the passenger-side door. "A friend?"

A wave of hesitation crashed down on Mark in an instant. Unlike his previous nervousness, this moment's pause to such an inquiry did not stem from the rotten tree of honed instincts. Rather, the meaning behind his waiver was simple. He did not want to talk about the kid.

"He's nobody." His voice sunk like a stone.

"Nobody?" Paul chuckled. "That's something strange Mark." He smiled to the now golden road ahead (thanks to the sinking sun). "So what brought you two to the outskirts of nowhere anyways?"

Mark thought on the best choice of words. Despite his calm exterior, his innards were a mess of intuition clashing madly with murderous instinct. "The road's been our home for a long time now." His eyes swept over the cool sleeping face of the kid wrapped in his arm. "Guess that comes with having no place to return to."

Paul nodded slightly in complete comprehension. Being a parent-less trucker meant asphalt and vast landscapes day in and day out. "Must be tough in your case since you don't have a car or nothing."

Mark's heavy brow lightened a bit the longer he stared at the smooth face of the brunette cozied to him. "It is." His voice slipped by with limited permission. "But the freedom's nice." He lied expertly. There was no freedom here.

"You and me bud" Paul let go his signature laugh that echoed deeply in the large cockpit. Mark simply watched in hapless disconnection, before his face cracked to a slight smile held up majorly at the left side of his face. "Well Mark, if you want, you can tuck in with your friend there. I'll make sure to wake you up once we hit that dust spot Amarillo."

"No need." Mark heaved a small sigh as he leaned back in the large seat. He clutched his hand tighter onto the brunette's shoulder, before nestling into a comfort zone. "I'll keep you company." He looked over to Paul – finding the man momentarily staring at him. "I'm good for it." He added with a small smile.

Paul continued to eye the older brunette, before shrugging his shoulders to the issue in opt of taking up the offer. After all, it wasn't everyday a road-loving trucker like himself got to travel a whole route with a passenger who was wide awake. If nothing else, the gesture was a warm welcome, and as such was received in kind.

"Appreciate it Mark." He eased a bit off the gas as a merging mini-van came into view. "Really do."


	5. Chetyre

For a near century old Clan, the McMahon Clan saw their busiest moments not at the head of their front company, or in the company of something far less reputable. Rather, the busiest time of the day for all five members of the McMahon family was spent seated around the circular breakfast table, smack dab in the middle of finishing that last bit of orange juice and putting one foot out the door. This tidbit of fact was indeed a true testament to the McMahon's enviable skill of being able to so expertly separate work from personal life. Or in actuality – separating work from dirty work and then keeping both far away from personal life. Such a talent kept all members of the McMahon Clan off the records of anything law enforcement – putting aside the rare occasions where they'd have a brush with the shoulders of gold badge justice – just as much as it kept them out of the sniper's view of some rival trying to get ahead. It was balance in perfect harmony with a world constantly turned upside down, and none could ask for better.

"So Aurora," Hunter glanced to his oldest seated to his right – dressed in her favorite purple blouse (topped with a bright red crocheted flower that hung off her left shoulder) and dark blue jeans that met the rims of Velcro strapped Sketchers – "Mommy tells me you got a gold star for your art project yesterday."

"And, she got an A plus on her reading." Beamed a proud Stephanie from the other end of the small table.

"Ms. Robyn told me that I was her _favorite_" She stressed with her father's arrogance, "reader in the whole world" The seven year old spoke gleefully to her parents, with arms widely stretched to each end so as to showcase her version of the world's diameter.

"Daddy me too! Me too!" The mess of curly chestnut locks bounced atop the small head of his second oldest in Murphy Claire. The little girl had a history of being the family's designated mischievous mess maker – as well as her older sister's forever one-upper. "I got a gold star from my teacher too for being the best!" Tiny hands held the crumpled paper (with the star sticker placed on the top right corner) up as far as they could in a desperate attempt to have it placed directly into her father's line of sight.

To the effort Stephanie smiled softly, before running a gentle hand through Murphy's soft hair – further tangling the unruly curls that seemed to stem directly from her own quirky personality. "That's my girl." She quickly leaned forward and placed a kiss directly on the button nose of her little one.

Hunter watched lovingly from his end of the table as his two girls quickly clambered over one another to see who could garner the most kisses from Mommy. Busy breakfasts had become sort of a tradition in the McMahon family – something that existed even before Vince McMahon Junior – but to Hunter, this generation of McMahon were a lot closer to the status of normal family than any before.

A small hand tugged on the end of his shirt, forcing Hunter to look down and see his three year old – clutching onto a small, plastic jar of Honey Nut Cheerios with a grip stronger than death – looking back up at him with hazel eyes that completely mirrored his own. Vaughn Evelyn McMahon was his youngest girl and nothing short of a mini-Hunter. She had everything her father had ever since birth. His eyes, the straightness (not size) of his nose, his defined jawline and –whenever she felt like showing it – his wiry smile. Due to her closeness in resemblance, Hunter could not help but favor his littlest one. A fact that presented itself when he picked up her small frame (clad in a pair of long tights and overhanging blue and white dress) and planted her squarely on his large lap. Having gotten used to this sort of greeting, the little girl did nothing more than stare blankly at her father's smiling face before paying the rest of her attention to the container of cereal she was currently strangling. The sight of his daughter's aloofness (another trait inherited from yours truly) broadened Hunter's smile, as he placed a tender kiss on the little one's head.

When the action did not prompt a reaction from his daughter, Hunter bent down closer to her and inquired on the issue. "What's the matter sweet pea?" He asked the side of her chubby face (more cheeks than anything else), "Why so sad?"

She looked up to him – effectively swinging the shoulder-length, golden blonde ponytail derived from her father – with bright hazel eyes shadowed by a toddler version of sadness that was only skin deep. "I lost Sheepy."

"You lost Sheepy?" Hunter parroted in an astonished tone of voice, "Where did you lose him sweet pea?"

"He was on bed an now he gone." Her lips folded at the end of her sentence to form a pout, which proceeded ahead of an oncoming cry. Despite her age however, her tears came silently as a result of being infused with far too much Hunter McMahon.

Regardless, Hunter still cradled his little girl in his massive arms and rocked away her sadness. It was then that his oldest returned to seek his attention.

"Vaughn," Aurora inquired with a worried look in her eyes, "Why are you crying?"

Vaughn looked to her big sister with tears still flowing from her eyes "I lost Sheepy." She said in a tiny, shaky voice.

Completely in the skin of big sister mode, Aurora quickly grabbed her sister's hand (the one without the container) and smiled brightly at her. "Don't worry," She spoke reassuringly, "Sheepy's not lost."

"He not?" Vaughn asked in a whisper.

"Nope." Aurora added with a sharp shake of her head, "He's just playing hide and seek."

"Sheepy's playing hide and seek?" Murphy chipped in as per her role to always invite herself into any situation surrounding her older sister.

"Yes." Aurora spoke in a tone bequeathed to her by her hard-nosed mother, before looking back at a now tear-less Vaughn Evelyn. "Daddy will find him for you, because Daddy's a super hero seeker, and that's what super hero seeker's do."

Hunter smiled proudly at his oldest daughter. Just like her mother – his beautiful wife – she always had a way with pacifying otherwise hostile and dangerous situations. Like Stephanie, Aurora had the gift of throwing life a curve ball so as to completely change a situation from bad to good, or from good to great.

"That's right." Hunter cut in for support, "Daddy will look for Sheepy and send him back to your room so he can play with you later."

To the words, Vaughn showcased her father's wiry smile on her own face. Hunter did not get the time to enjoy it for long as a hand quietly patted him on the shoulder, steering his now hard attention over to a formally dressed man standing behind him with a black cell phone in his hand. After mulling over what it was he was seeing, Hunter quickly turned back to his three little girls to kiss them all on parts of their upper head he could immediately reach.

"Have a good day at school." He spoke whilst standing to his feet – taking care to rest Vaughn carefully on the floor – and smiling from ear to ear. "I love you"

"We love you too Daddy." Aurora chimed in to get her head patted by her father's large hand.

"Me too! Me too!" Shouted Murphy as she pushed ahead for a pat of her own. "I love you most Daddy" Climbed out between sets of missing teeth.

Vaughn simply stared at her father before being pulled along by Aurora – who had long since reclaimed her sister's tiny hand.

"It's time to head out girls." Stephanie called from the kitchen sink. A man clad in a suffocatingly buttoned evening wear held out Mrs. McMahon's coat as she slid her statuesque frame into its rich clutches.

To the order, Vaughn skipped away with her older sister – who still held onto the little girl's hand – with Murphy walking behind in tow (tight curls bobbing in every direction as she moved). As they approached the door, it was Aurora first who turned to look back at her still standing father only to smile and wave as her mother ushered all three siblings out the kitchen door. Stephanie looked back as well for a brief moment, smiled coyly at the man she married, and blew a light kiss in his direction – all the while mouthing 'I love you' as the door closed behind her.

As the room grew still to the new-found quietness, Hunter took a moment to walk over to the large window standing guard at the door. Once there, he had a clear view of his entire life getting into the back seat of a chaperoned black SUV only to be driven away into a world of which he had little to no control. No matter how cautious they were, rival scum always managed to find a way to compromise their security and safety. It was on Murphy's school trip that both he and Stephanie decided to plant bodyguards for their children in whatever aspect of life they faced beyond the walls of their mansion. Naturally, to keep to their strife for normalcy, both parents ensured that the bodyguards they chose for their children remained as ghosts in their child's lives as well as be bound by the contents of the blood contract. It was only in that tidbit of fact that Hunter could find even a semblance of peace in knowing that his children and even his wife would be safe in and beyond the Clan's borders.

"Sir." A heavy voice rolled in to remind Hunter of why he would be leaving behind a partially unfinished breakfast.

In that moment, the large man turned a cold demeanor towards his subordinate as he walked over and relieved the stern man of the phone he held in his possession. It was not until he was clear of the kitchen area did Hunter place the phone to his ear – finding it already answered.

"Wolf." The blonde spoke gruffly with his darkened hazel eyes focused on the extended hallway floored with sparkling marble tiles, "I heard you have some news for me." He peered into a nearby room, before continuing on.

"Yes." A heavy voice climbed through the receiver, "A scout contacted me with information about our mutual friend."

Despite the interference that limped into the conversation (possibly a result of being near a busy street), Hunter's well-trained ears caught the near vanished words, "Where?" He inquired stoically.

"Just outside of Dallas about a few nights ago." A pause ensued momentarily. "Sources say he's keeping east."

"East?" Hunter deepened his frown to the sight of another failed room– only to continue on his journey up the stairs "How far east?"

"No word on that yet." A deep sigh caved through the lines, tangling itself in a short second of telecommunication static, "By tomorrow I will be able to give you a trajectory."

Hunter scoffed brusquely under a harsh breath, "I want a destination Wolf. Not the path he walked on." His body stopped at the hilt of the staircase as he opened a nearby door to reveal a tiny closet. "You promised me you would deliver." Overcast eyes stretched down the length of the closet wall. "So deliver."

Wolf chuckled deeply into the receiver, before composing and returning with his original tone of cold professionalism, "Have a good day Hunter."

The line went dead in an instant. Hunter took the phone from his ear only to push it behind his back. From thin air itself another man emerged from the nearby shadows – a bit less formally dressed than the others – to relieve Hunter of the Android in the same fashion as a relay runner would a teammate's baton. Without removing his eyes from what they laid upon, Hunter bent down slightly to place his hand upon a small item.

"The car is ready Sir." The man in the shadows spoke dryly. "Shall I have it brought to the back?"

"No." His eyes remained focused on the item he was now taking care to dust off. He then turned to meet the man stood behind him face to face. "This is my house." He smiled wryly, "I'll leave through the front."

With that he sauntered on by towards Vaughn Evelyn's room – denoted by all the jungle decor and various shades of green – and swiftly placed the plush sheep onto the top of her bed along with her cast collection of majorly non-jungle stuffed animals. A kinder smile befell Hunter's face as he stared at the small plush sheep looking back at him in an almost paranoid way.

"Stay here Sheepy." He spoke in a low whisper, "She'll be back soon."

With that, the large blonde exited his daughter's room – taking care to close the door – and returned to the first floor of his mansion with the front door as his final destination.

* * *

><p>There was something that did not sit too well with Detective Bourne. The sickly feeling of something being unlawfully amiss was in fact the Detective's own doing, however that did not make his suspicions any less abominable. If anything, having self-propelled himself into this kind of situation walled by sudden unrest turned out to amplify his ever-growing concerns. Concerns surrounding the man seated ahead of him. Detective Chris Jericho.<p>

From what Evan had been taught by others, and made aware of all on his own, his partner Chris Jericho was the personification of a man filled with secrets. The outward society with no prior or future connections with Detective Jericho would never have been able to see past what looked to be aloofness embedded in the six foot blonde. As such, most people left the descriptions of Detective Jericho to words exceeding no more than five letters. Words like cold. Stern. Stoic. For some, adjectives like heartless, and callous were the preferred terms of choice. However, despite their truth, none of these tidbits of human vocabulary really served to describe the blonde sat ahead of Evan. Rather, in Bourne's mind, words like dedicated, loyal and proactive seemed to fit Chris' character a lot better seeing that the older Detective lived and breathed the job.

According to the Captain in Bret Hart, Jericho's undying loyalty to the 18th Precinct – and all affiliates of law enforcement – stemmed from sheer talent in finding and comprehending things at a level far above even the most exceptional human being. In other words, people like Chris Jericho – born with the natural talent for one specific thing – were bound to whatever their ability best applied to until death did them part. The notion was as scary as it was unbelievable (what was retirement in place for if not to avoid working oneself to death?), but out of all the descriptions Evan garnered about his partner, in the end it was Brett's vision that won the overall vote. The man across the paper-filled desk was likely to continue sitting there, doing his job, utilizing his natural talents until he died.

However, none of this sufficed to be even remotely close to why Evan Bourne felt it necessary to lose himself in thought while staring blindingly at his partner. What did suffice was the simple fact that for as long as Evan came to know the man, Chris Jericho always had information. In the beginning, Evan was quite willing to put aside the truth as being a part of Jericho's amazing talent. However, as the cases piled up and got majorly solved in the same breath, Evan could not help but rethink his original position. Detective Jericho was, for a lack of a better term, the perfect investigative officer. He was a hero in the eyes of the public as well as a shoe in to be the Captain, based on all the cases he solved in his career. Yet, Detective Jericho chose to stay on the pedestal of mere investigator – a choice he personally had set in place with the higher ups about ten years ago.

This was the troubling thought that eroded young Bourne's initial mindset. A man like Chris Jericho – a Detective like Chris Jericho – should already be at the top of the food chain. Instead, he never took up the torch handed to him, but rather had it put out before it even caught flame. Nonetheless, the blonde's rate of speed when it came to solving cases did not slow down in the least. If anything, they were solved frighteningly faster than they had been all his life. The odds of such a trend happening were insurmountable and unattainable. No matter how good someone is, solving over ninety percent of the open cases and not reaping the benefits bordered on either the godly or the utterly insane. For the past fifteen minutes, Evan had been trying desperately to figure out into which category his partner fell.

"If you've got the time to dig into me with your eyes, then I assume you've got a lead from the database."

Evan blinked rapidly to bring himself back – now finding that Jericho was still focused on the happenings occurring on his own computer screen. "Sorry." He sputtered out rapidly while clumsily taking hold of his mouse and staring at his screen. The once empty bar was now filled with cyber-green liquid. A box appeared below it showcasing the words 'Three Results Found'.

"Well?" Jericho piped in annoyed. His eyes now glaring up at Evan – forcing the man to fiddle nervously in a poor attempt to familiarize himself with the surroundings he should have already been used to. Honestly, the panic scene was something comedic, but based on the fact that he had not had a smoke since arriving at Ms. Mundy's bomb-shelter apartment, Jericho was less than inclined to find the humor and react to it. "Bourne!" He roared.

"Yes!" Bourne replied with eyes darting between his notepad, the screen, and Chris – before stopping dead on Chris. "I have three matches."

"Good." Jericho spoke through the agitation now strangling him. He needed a smoke – fast. "List them."

"Okay." Evan prepped himself up in his chair and flipped madly through his notepad. Chris rolled his eyes as he rested his chin in the middle of an upright, open palm. "There's The Minatur on 51st street and Walden Ave. There's Sapphire Cabaret near Brockett and Coyle. And then there's La Familia off 6th St"

Jericho leaned back in his own chair, sliding down a bit so as to further extend his legs beneath the desk. "Minatur doesn't carry anything expensive so we can rule that out."

Evan quickly crossed the name off his list, before looking back to Chris slightly derailed in thought. "Do I dare ask how you know that?"

Jericho cocked a sly grin. "Everybody's got their days. Mine used to end at places like that." He sighed as the smile faded. "And about that Cabaret—"

"Sapphire Cabaret" Evan slipped in with the correction.

"Whatever." Jericho dismissed rather childishly. "That place. It's like a used car lot. Forget it." To the last set of words, Chris sat forward before standing completely to his feet.

Evan watched for a moment at a distance, before coming to once his brown eyes found Chris flinging on his jacket over his tailored shirt. "W-Where are we going?" He spoke while also standing to his feet.

"_I'm_ heading to the last place on your list." His cold eyes shot down to the younger man, "You can tag along if you want."

With a simple push of the small button tucked to the bottom right, Jericho's monitor went black as he fled the desk. Evan dashed behind him to catch up – something that seemed farfetched until the inevitable wait on the elevator stopped the blonde. Both men stood to the steel door, before a voice called to them from Chris' left.

With his head popped out of his office, Lieutenant John Cena looked to both men. "Are you love-birds heading down?"

Chris frowned in distaste. "Yeah," He wrapped a surprising arm around Evan's small shoulder – instantly pulling the surprised man to his body and welding him there for a moment. Bourne looked up to find Jericho grinning wickedly. "But this table's full John."

It was John's turn to frown –as his body now came into full view – not to the remark, but more to one of Jericho's worse habits. Addressing people without any consideration for their ranks. "Anyways, the report came in about that girl's family. Primo and Epico left the country one week before she died, so we tried to contact Costa Rican authorities, but since they're not official suspects, their country won't release them to us." John flipped through the folder in his hand. "Oil testing came back as a positive for bike oil. Sanded it down to special order, custom-made Harleys. Only a couple here in the States, but one of them is owned by an old friend of ours." Cena smirked as he slammed the folder shut – having caught the full attention of both the Detectives stood waiting on the elevator. "Randy Orton."

Jericho narrowed his eyes to Cena, turning slightly (pulling Evan involuntarily along with him) to face his Lieutenant. "Leader of the _Devil's Clan_ huh?" He scoffed. "Figures a daredevil would own a machine like that."

John chuckled. "Well, when you get around to it, check it out. I'm leaving the reports on your desk."

Chris shot a crude smile as he looked back to the now open elevator. "Thanks John."

"Hey!" Cena called as Chris and (inadvertently) Evan all but bolted into the metal box, "You owe me one Jericho!" was all he could say before the doors slammed shut on his voice.

Once inside the elevator, Chris let go of his strangely chummy behavior by swiftly detaching himself from Evan. Bourne looked at him in some form of bewilderment. It was understandable seeing that this was the first time his partner ever came into physical contact with him (or anybody seeing that he had a well-documented aversion to the words _people_ and _touching_ being put in the same sentence), but Jericho chose to see it another way.

"You've been staring at me all day." He spoke harshly. "It's fucking creepy, so stop it."

To such a painfully predictable response, Evan scoffed to himself as he refocused his attention on the reflective metal ahead. "So where are we off to partner?"

Chris notably shirked to the word, but quickly overcame the slimy feel to keep matters where they belonged. On the case. "La Familia doesn't allow men toting badges after a certain hour." He flicked his wrist upwards to catch a quick glance at the face of his watch. "We've got about two hours before the shop's closed. After that," He drew in a deep breath, "I want to take care of Orton, but it all depends on what happens at La Familia. In the meantime, I'll spread a rumor to my CI about the police suspecting Randy for Rosa's murder. Let that wildfire go where it needs to." A long sigh escaped his lips. "Damn I need a smoke."

A smile of content sat on Evan's face. It was this lingering and unnecessary presence that prompted Chris to attach his baby blues to Bourne's face.

"What?" He asked rather skeptically. In truth he cared less about why his counterpart wanted to sport a creepy smile all of a sudden – but it was because it _was_ all of a sudden that Chris felt the itching desire to know.

"Nothing." Evan continued to look brightly at the older man. "I'm just glad you're my partner, Chris."

Completely understandably, Jericho spontaneously shot a look of confusion over his face. "What the hell should that mean?"

Evan held Jericho's face within his line of sight for a bit longer, before the sound of the metal curtains drawing away prompted him to look ahead and exit the small box. Jericho – having been left hanging out to dry in regards to his inquiry – stepped in a near-running fashion so as to catch up with his meandering partner.

* * *

><p>If Mark Calaway remembered anything about his fragmented past – anything prior to ten years ago, precisely – it would be the story his last step father used to tell him whenever sobriety graced the old man.<p>

The story about the monster.

_Once upon a time_, he would say in his trademark gravelly tone, _there was a monster who lived in a cave. He had no name. And because of that, the monster was lonely. So,_ he would pause to catch another staggered breath – forcing his second chin to ripple into the fat of his large chest – before continuing, _one day the monster decided to go to a nearby town and find himself a name. He went to the baker, and said "Baker, what is your name?" And the baker replied "It's John." With a smile, the monster said "John. I like your name" and devoured the baker in one bite. _At this juncture, the old man would look to his then seven year old step-son and give his own crooked grin, before going further. _The monster lived with the name John for a long time before he began to dislike it. And so, he went back to the town and found a barber. He said, with teeth large and sharpened, "Barber, what is your name?" The barber looked at the monster and replied, "It's Bill." The monster's mouth watered, "Bill?" He said as he stepped closer to the barber, "I like that name." And with that, the monster ate Bill and took his name. _The old man sat back in his rusty chair, letting the air escape in a hiss from his nasal canals and open mouth. He looked ahead to the empty mantle place hanging above the dead fire, before sighing once more and looking to the boy standing on the wood floor beside him. His wicked grin slid back across his face as he thought on something unknown, before deciding to continue. _Soon, the monster named Bill began to hate his new name. And so, he went back into the town and decided to take everyone's name all at once. That way he would have all the names he wanted. So, with his large teeth, sharp claws, and glowing red eyes he devoured each and every one of the townspeople and destroyed the little town. Now all the names belonged to him, and so the monster returned to his cave in happiness. He had all the names he could ever want. There was no name left to take. _Cold blue eyes slipped back to the seven year old -looking back deadpan at him from behind the horizon of the large black magnum- and hardened on the boy's unforgiving expression. A raspy sigh escaped the old man as he looked back to the empty mantle place. _But one day, a traveling group of people from the next town over passed by the monster's lair. They called each other names that the monster had never heard of before. This greatly saddened the monster. He had all the names he ever could want, and yet here he was hearing a new set of names. As the travelers sat around their fire, the monster came out of his cave and tapped one of them on the shoulder. "Excuse me" He said politely beneath his rancid breath and over-sized teeth, "what is your name?" The startled traveler looked back in fright at the large monster stood before him, but somehow managed to speak, "My name is Mark." The monster smiled, and smiled. "Mark?" He replied, "I like that name very much."_

The night sunk away in the condemned farm house to hide in the shadows the pool of blood collecting beneath the large body of a now dead fifty year old tyrant of a man. By the time dawn had arrived, the seven year old newborn assassin was nowhere to be found. It would be six years before he returned to land of the living, but by then the monster with gnashing teeth and vicious claws had gathered a new set of names. The Punisher. Texas Red. The Master of Pain. Wherever the thirteen year old went, death was a surety. One year into his reemergence into the new world outside of his own bad lands, and The Punisher had become the world's top assassin. The title did not exactly help him get a raise in his strange choice career, however it was all one Vince McMahon Junior needed as proof that people could die without a trace.

At first, Mark sought out ways to distance himself from any knowledge of who hired him, and subsequently who stood on the other end of his trusted _Jackal_. It was his own version of keeping business professional. However, Vince liked to work with names and faces, and so to the Heads of The Black Shield the fourteen year old stone cold killer was given the official title of The Undertaker. Anyone whose name was written above his on a death contract would die – no questions asked, no pardons made. The easy job of simply showing up in front of the next victim regardless of time or place, and pulling the trigger to launch a heavy bullet through their skull got easier as time went by. Then someone shot back and injured The Undertaker for the first time. On that cold night, Mark Calaway lay a foot deep in Montana snow staining the carpet of white with his blood. His fading eyesight caught the color leaking out of him, and gave the brunette a shock in the fact that his own blood was red. Not black, as he had come to believe. As Mark watched himself die, he felt the suffocating realization of mortality. That just like how the people he killed died, he could too. Death spares no man. Not even a dead man. Suffice to say though, death released its mischievous hold on Mark as he found himself holed up in the mountains with a man he had only then met once before. The silver pistol with the trademark decal gave him away.

For nearly three weeks Mark lay atop a bed made from thin foam and watched in silence the comings in and goings out of the smaller blonde, and in no time at all – despite having not exchanged so much as a passing glance let alone a word – he began to develop human emotions for the man. Once his stay came to an end (his injuries healed without a fuss and so saw him living for, if nothing else, one more day), Mark sought out the man that had so reverently aided him. However, after a thorough search of the cabin and its surrounding wintery woodlands, it was clear to The Undertaker that the strange blonde had vanished. His heart grew heavy that day with each flake of snow that broke away and fell at his feet, as he filled to the brim with a strange recollection of having been here before.

Here in a lair, all alone, with no one to call him by name.

/Ten years huh/ The _Jackal _shone in all the beauty of its metallic blackness as the small piece of cloth gently caressed its dismembered barrel. /That's a long time to be holding a grudge./

The seemingly never-ending journey had taken both men to a more remote part of America, but still kept them close to civilization seeing that Mark did not wish to repeat wasting time stuck in one place due to a lack of available transportation. The place they now stashed away in was a ground floor motel that came courtesy of a butter-fingered klutz who decided to stand a little too close to the kid as they got set to head to the nearest bus station. Of course though, the '05 Honda parked outside with both license plates replaced thanks to an unsuspecting Ford Focus four years newer than the blue Civic made up for the altercation. As Mark shined down the small pieces of the _Jackal,_ the hypnotic state that spawned from such repetition dosed the older brunette's ever working mind with a sedative as disarming as a morphine overdose.

"_This is it Undertaker." A cold voice spoke in a gravelly tone, "The last job." A chuckle raking over an industrial grater came raining chills down his spine as though the man himself was breathing down his very neck. "It's a shame though." The words had sunk in by the time the heavy voice spoke again, "Retirement doesn't suit you."_

A piece of the _Jackal_ snagged on the edge of Mark's nail – slipping from his fingers and falling to the table below. The series of actions quickly woke Mark out of his trance and returned him back to the matter at hand. His mind had barely returned when a loud crash came from behind and instantly forced Mark to spin around with a threatening gaze set in his sunken eyes. Once his vision came into the clear, Mark found himself calmer by the second, before rising (taking care to conceal the pieces of the _Jackal_ with what was left of his ripped shirt) from his seat and heading over to the open bathroom.

"Are you okay?" He asked of the man inside nearly sprawled out on the slippery tiles.

The smaller, dark-haired brunette looked up rather sheepishly at Mark whilst slowly shaking his head.

To the honest reaction, Mark cracked a small smile as he aided the fallen man in standing up off the tiles of the bathroom floor. "You slipped?"

The young man nodded in a shy fashion as he held onto Mark's arm for self-comfort. Calaway quickly dragged the large towel hanging off the rod next to the door and instantly wrapped the soaking wet brunette in its white softness.

"You should take better care of yourself." He spoke while subsequently using the nearby hand towel to help the small brunette dry out his unruly, black curls. "I won't always be around to protect you, you know." Slipped out unconsciously.

To the words, the younger man stood frozen for a second or so, before reaching out and placing a timid hand onto the start of Mark's elbow. To the touch, Calaway flinched only to relax almost immediately. He ceased drying and instead placed his hands onto the sides of the smaller man's face. Once there, the joints in his wrist shifted the brunette's entire face upwards so as to meet his own set of shadowed emerald orbs. Looking down at a considerable distance, Mark clearly saw in the green eyes looking back, the glassiness of a deep-rooted fear.

"I'm sorry." He spoke in a decibel barely classified as a whisper. "I didn't mean that. I won't leave you." The brunette's tea green eyes began to fill with tidbits of water. However, they weren't enough in numbers to generate a tear. Either way, Mark still felt heart-warmed to the sight as it reminded him that there was even still a sliver of light in his black soul. "Do you feel better now?"

It took a few seconds, however the younger man eventually nodded (albeit rather stiffly) to the question – smiling at the end to put Mark's overactive mind at ease.

"Good." An equally thin smile graced Mark's own face as he relinquished his hold on the brunette. "Finish up and I'll head out later to grab –."

Unexpectedly, the stark naked man leaped forward and threw his slender arms around Mark's neck and shoulders – nearly dragging the larger man down to the wet floor.

The immediacy of the action shook Calaway's stance for a moment (a grand difference from the first time he had been exposed to such a bold reaction), however by expertly placing his hands lightly on the slim waist of the brunette, the Undertaker managed to re-gather his equilibrium. "Okay. Okay." He stated with a smile, as his hands returned to his side "That's enough. I have to get food for the road."

The younger man simply stared at Mark in a heart-wrenching sadness, before resting his head lightly on Mark's board shoulder. His breathing grew lighter, yet at such a close distance, it also grew louder.

"Ah…a…" Faintly gargled out from the very bowels of his throat.

Three simple letters were all it took for the already faint sliver of light to diminish to a mere speck. Soul deep wounds slowly began peeling open as the hack stitching painfully began to unravel itself. Haunting words of _"This is the last job"_ echoed in the cavities of his mind, reminding him cruelly that no matter what he thought he was feeling, reality would always be there to ensure that he understood the opposite.

In no time at all, Mark felt less joy. "Alright, time to let go." He patted the left side of the younger man – urging him to comply. The brunette ignored and merely buried his face deeper into the cloth covering Mark's shoulder in defiance. Mark sighed, "Let go or else I'll restrain you."

The brunette immediately tensed to the threat. His body began the pupa stages of compliance, before something nameless came about and threw a monkey-wrench into his submission. Rather than releasing Mark and stepping away, the younger man clung on tighter – pressing his entire naked body onto Mark's clothed one.

In an effort to keep his head cool, Mark instantly used both hands to try and pry the young man off him. However, for all his strength the brunette would not move.

Once more Calaway tried words, "Let go." He spoke sternly, "Phil. Let go."

Due to having his head buried in the crevices of his broad shoulder, Mark could feel Phil's head shake heavily from side to side as his frail hands desperately grabbed hold of Mark's board back so as to tighten the hold he had on the older man. In an instant, Calaway felt a tinge of something almost dagger-like stroke up and down his back like a cold blade on hot flesh. This, he came to realize, was suppressed desire being strongly overcome by razor sharp instincts. Without a doubt, Mark knew that with one well-placed punch, he could easily hit the softer parts of Phil's abdomen and then ever so roughly plant him face first on the wet floor. The moment the idea crossed his mind, Mark shook it from his head. Using force against the raven-haired man was simply not in his genetic make up. In fact, just the very thought of how much pain Phil would be in because of it put Mark's mind in a tail spin of consuming guilt. Regardless of his clash of conscience, the urge to separate was still present in Mark, and ultimately enforced the older man to look elsewhere to achieve acumen.

It was then that his eyes raked observantly over the tousled black curls twisted boisterous atop the brunette's head. Despite having previously run a towel over them, some strands still held close to the moistness of water. The sight of the messy head of hair grazing the slender neck of such an acquiescent person dug up a different grave inside Calaway's cemetery of a soul. A grave holding the longing for companionship.

In the fastest of haste, Mark grabbed the controls out of the wonky hands of desire, and immediately placed the brakes on his own movements. When the older man came to he found his hand a fingertip away from the brunette's still bowed head.

/Damn it!/ He thought in aggravation. /What the hell am I doing?/ In no more than two seconds, Mark quickly turned a nearly regrettable act into a means of aid when he grabbed the brunette's hair and pulled him off with the same kind of force applied to separating magnets. He completed the separation by restraining the young man's arms behind his slender back. The brunette looked up at the close face of Mark Calaway and gave a small yet timid smile, as he leaned closer to the older man – rapidly shrinking the hard-earned space between them. A proximity alert alarm blared away inside Mark as he told himself in every known language to quickly let go and move away; but like the methodical cleaning of his _Jackal_, the brunette's innocent green eyes swayed the older man in a smooth hypnotic rhythm that seemed to completely erase his sanity. In the time he stood there losing his mind, Mark began to feel greatly attracted to the naked man stood in front of him.

Sensing the danger and knowing he had nothing left if he allowed a second time, "Don't!" flew commandingly out of Calaway's mouth. Phil obeyed by standing still. To the tractability, Mark turned away sharply – more so to hide his rampant and maddening thoughts, than out of disgust – before adding coldly, "Just get dressed."

To that, Calaway left the bathroom, bringing the door to a complete shut. Based on a ten year database, Mark knew the consequences of such an action even without them flashing across his mind like a news station ticker tape. Regardless, Calaway left the door closed, but it was not until he took the time to jam the lock with a nearby chair did the young man inside start to scream.


	6. Pyat'

_In the deepest caverns that slept heavily guarded beneath the luxuriously hellish mansion up above, sat a prison simply known to its captives as The Pit. As cliché as the nickname was, for the men, women and children rotting away within the encasing of moldy brick walls, achingly heavy chains and steel bars, The Pit was nothing short of lurid. Everything in this guttural place– from the chains that clutched the barely-alive at their sore and blistered ankles, to the bars that kept able-bodied and dead locked away within the ulcers of this grotesquely dark place, and to the reeking stench of the filth each prisoner had to wallow and bathe in every day except those times when the warden felt like showering his toys with ice cold water – was the epitome of hell on earth. It was a nightmare within the world's worst nightmare. A place no sane man would ever claim to exist, or even desire upon their worst enemy._

_For Cody Rhodes, not only was The Pit real, it had also been the wish of someone for him to be cast down into it. The very first time Cody knew of his worth was the day he spotted his older brother Dustin placing bets with a few friends over a table they had all set up out in the backyard. From where the then eleven year old stood, Cody watched and listened with body parts belonging to a complete stranger, as his brother took up a solid twenty dollar bill and through a crooked smile said:_

"_I'll let the three of you have him by tonight."_

_The joyous cackles of four boys plotting evil filled the then brilliantly red sun-stricken sky. The tiny boy stood behind a large tree and –nearly engulfed in the sunset ahead – shook like a leaf caught in a winter breeze as his mind gave into a nameless fear. Nothing in the sentence, then, seemed real to Cody, but in all brutal actuality, the young Rhodes knew that his older brother had just sold him for a measly twenty dollars - getting his money's worth once Cody was carted off by those three paying boys and beaten near dead for the fun of it. _

_Five years went by in a flash, but during that time Cody never once stopped thinking about that one bastard of an evening. His mind played the same tune over and over again. __I'll let the three of you have him by tonight__. The sounds of shoes and fists breaking his bones follow shortly after. And then all goes black. It was due to the sleepless nights (a commodity that came with living with an evil like Dustin Rhodes) that Cody's sixteen year old mind managed to conjure up a plan. Due to him being the second child, Cody knew for certain he had no hope of ever becoming the leader of his Clan. In fact, such a prestige would be going to Dustin as soon as he graduated from High School. And when that happened, Dusty Rhodes would no longer be able to protect his son from what malicious intents his oldest had in store for his youngest. Therefore, at age sixteen and with just twelve months away from senior graduation, Cody acted as quickly as he could._

_To begin with, the young teenager delved deep into the law books of the Black Shield. In his findings he found only a tiny loophole available to him. He found an escape. And that escape laid in his longtime friend Ted DiBiase. As unfortunate as Ted's family situation was (his biological mother was killed after he was born, and his two only brothers were exiled from the Clan and left to rot in the world beyond Black Shield's shadow), it was the only hope made available to Rhodes. And so, without so much as a sliver of hesitation, Cody pounced on the first chance he got to give an indecisive Ted the push in the other direction. The push closest to making his friend the Head of the DiBiase Clan as soon as humanly possible. _

_Such manipulative scheming proved both easy and difficult to accomplish at the same time. Easy in the fact that Ted's father honestly wanted his "only" son to be the one to take the throne. Difficult in the fact that Ted wanted nothing more than to run away from the confines of the Black Shield with Cody in tow. To persuade the older blonde, Rhodes found himself latching onto the harrowing bit of ego wherein Ted desired to be the Head of the DiBiase Clan for the simple need to one-up his longtime rival in Randy Orton by becoming the new youngest Clan Head. Once Ted was inveigled, Cody had laid down the asphalt for an easy road, and in no time at all, senior graduation came along. Dustin was immediately sent away to learn the ropes of becoming the new Head of the Rhodes Clan, while Ted was shipped off discreetly for his own set of preparations. All that was left was two years. Two years and Cody Rhodes would be able to do whatever and live however he pleased. _

_Two years and he was free. _

_As the warden kicked the already broken face of his newly acquired toy, Cody came to the sad realization that he had been sitting in the filth and rottenness of death and near-death for close to five years now. The rusty chain clamped around his scrawny and blistered ankle hurt with every move his leg made. At one point, he noted, he had tried to stop moving altogether, but the corpse beside him covered in bed sores (a joke seeing that – along with sunlight – he hadn't seen a bed in ages) made him realize the error of that plan. Now on year five, Cody could barely even cry in sadness. In fact, the brunette no longer had any strength to cry. He didn't even have the strength to hate. All he had was the vanishing warmth of a promise once made. _

"It'll be two years" He had once said, "but I'll come back for you Cody. I promise you, I'll come back"

_The sound of a high pitched scream followed by an equally loud yell caved into his mind and further crushed his flickering hope. His eyes – bogged with heavy bags of sleep deprivation coupled with third stage malnutrition – slowly looked beyond the distant bars that kept him inside the belly of this horrid beast. Using the dim fluorescent light as his guide, Cody managed to pick out a few bodies strewn ahead. He recognized the one seated kingly on the leather chair. He even recognized the four standing in an ominous circle a few feet from the chair. However, he didn't know the barely conscious woman the four were raping, just as much as he didn't know the crying man being forced to fellatio the warden sitting in the leather chair. Regardless, as the sound of two well-placed head shots echoed into a deafening silence, knowing no longer mattered. _

_As Cody turned his dead stare away, the lock on his cage cracked open, forcing him to exert limited energy on turning back. One of the men he recognized threw in a muzzled girl no older than he was when he found Dustin on that bastard day. She hit the concrete wall hard and would have knocked out had she not been so full of fear, hate, sadness and horror all at once. Immediately she attempted to escape – much like Cody had when he first came to this hell hole – but – much like Cody – she failed in an instant as the large man struck her in the temple with his knuckle-baring fist. She hit the floor like a dead weight and didn't even flinch when the cold shackle strapped onto her left ankle. The man looked to Cody with his dark eyes, smirked crookedly thanks to a lengthy facial scar, and then headed back out – taking care to secure the lock on the cage door. In all this time Cody's own cerulean eyes had yet to leave the little girl. He simply watched as the floor of age-old water, stale blood, and soggy feces drank up the majority of her red hair and bright, pale, naked skin. _

_Weeks turned into years right before Cody's eyes. At one point, the warden had come down to pay his subjects a visit. After barely showing his disdain for the way people survived in such conditions, the warden staidly had his henchmen clear out the prisons and clean them back to a level of habitation. During the great clean up, five of what was once hundreds of prisoners clambered out and felt the relief of having their shackles removed for the first time. One man grew a misplaced sense of bravery and desperately made a mad dash for the exiting warden. None of the henchmen stepped in, and for good reason, because the moment the poor escapee got within range, the warden turned and flattened him with a single punch. Fueled by a raging desire to live, the weak man stumbled back to his knees, only to be met with the wooden heel of a very expensive shoe. He fell once more, but stubbornly tried to stand. The warden watched in cold silence, allowed his broken toy to bring himself back up upon shaky bones, and in one motion snapped the man's neck. This time, the man stayed down, and the henchmen automatically went over to dispose of the body._

_The great cleanup lasted for four hours. During that time, all the remaining four prisoners were huddled like cattle into a corner adjacent to the only staircase leading out of this hell hole. While most stayed their ground in sight of what just took place, the little girl – thirteen now, and with much shorter red hair (thanks to the depleting nutrition) – kept her fiery russet eyes on the door at the summit of the concrete stairs. Her stared lingered on the forbidden zone long enough for Cody to take notice. Once he did, the brunette immediately knew what was coming next. After all, he had seen that look before. A look of determination. A look of will. A look that would lead to the same fate as many of these prisoners. In just a few seconds, the little girl turned her body towards the stairs, but never got a foot forward as Cody's arms held her back. She immediately turned her glare to the tall brunette – threatening him with her large eyes not to get in her way – only to find the man mouthing the words:_

"_Don't go." _

_Two words instantly put out the fire of will inside the little girl as her tense body relaxed into submission. Two words was all it took for her to give up and accept fate. This is what Cody had thought as he looked at the little girl. However, merely two months after he and now two other prisoners had been returned to the cell, a man clambered down the stairs in the dead of night. Due to the ever-dim fluorescent bulb streaming above in the distance, Cody barely got a look at the man's face. Even when the hulking giant opened the cage and broke the chain attached to the foot of the now overjoyed little girl, Cody could barely see what the man looked like. Then the little girl – just one step from exiting the cage – stopped and turned to Cody. She held out her hand and merely whispered _

"_Come with me". _

_The words –as selfish as they seemed to be- put life back into Cody's heart and instantly brightened the near-dead light of hope deep inside his soul. It was during that pause that the large man stepped back into the cell. He hurriedly tugged on the little girl's arm while looking about in a frantic manner. It was only then that Cody managed to see the man in full view. The soulless dark eyes gave him away, while the large scar running down the left side of his face proved his identity. Immediately Cody froze. This was not what it seemed. This was not the rescue he had long since dreamed of. This was merely a shipment. And his red-haired companion was the one being taken away. _

_In an instant, the flickering light of hope vanished along with what was left of his soul. As the large man dragged the little girl out of the cage, Cody felt a ball of long-forgotten hatred form in his throat before falling into the aching pits of his own stomach. Once there, the nuclear blast gave rise to a stream of broken tears that poured miraculously out of his eyes – numbing him to deafening sounds of the little girl being broken into beyond the door upstairs that had been left open. Each salty drop fell to the crusted and cold floor, until eventually their supply ran short. Soon, after what seemed like hours, Cody returned from his destitution with a grave outlook on life. For years he had waited in the filth of a death-filled Pit, but in the end no one was coming to save him. _

_Ted had lied._

_And left him here to die._

* * *

><p>By the time Cody rose, the afternoon sun had already long since vanished towards the other end of the world. His body twisted a bit as he stretched his slightly cramped muscles, before he found himself in a slightly numb state towards his surroundings. The air was clean. Bodies weren't piling up around him. He was lying on a bed not on a feces-coated floor. And the only sound that could be heard was the sound of Batista's television alive with the happenings of a foreign channel, which streamed out from his room across the hall. Cody's eyes shifted about as if to collect data on what he was certain had to be a dream, before realizing that he was far from it.<p>

It had been nearly twelve months now, and never once did he wake up to the sound of violent screams and shouts. Not once did his slumber get ripped from him by the hands of a death happening right beside him, or the feel of a stranger taking him by force. Instead, he now slept. He ate properly. He saw the sun everyday. For almost an entire year, Cody was living in the bosom of a hope he once truly believed was gone. Being in this mansion as a part of the Clan he had once planned to use as an escape route wasn't something he thought had disappeared. Rather, his life now had happened. And it had happened because truthfully (as much as Cody wanted to deny), Ted kept his promise. He came back to rescue him. He had just been ten years too late.

However, as forgivable as that should have been, Cody could not shake the chilling realization that had it not been ten years too late, then he would have been a free man. Instead, because it had been ten years too late, that freedom which he so longed for…that freedom that would have granted a clean slate far more beautiful than anything DiBiase money could ever buy…that freedom, so simple yet complex by design, had slipped through his fingers twelve months to the day. Yes Cody was entirely thankful for being brought out of the nightmare that was Randy Orton, but it would taste a lie to say the young Rhodes' heart did not boil over to the sole fact that freedom –his freedom – rested in the hands of a man who believed the term to mean nothing past the walls of his turf.

Before ire took command of him, Rhodes slid off his large bed and headed towards the bathroom nearby – slipping out of his clothes without thought. The luke warm water rained down from the various pipes embedded one inch beneath the skin of the shower ceiling. The brunette watched mindlessly as the water slipped into the drain beneath his feet , carrying with it the baggage of a week's worth of city dirt. Seconds dripped away into an uncertain nothingness as Cody's mind slipped into a comatose state. His eyes now focused beyond the chrome grate of the shower drain, and steadied on a volatile set of realistic flashbacks. Suddenly, the brunette was nowhere near this shower, this room, or even this house. Suddenly, he was back in front of a fire hose being sprayed with fickle water that went from ice cold to lava hot in a matter of seconds. Darkened voices and seemingly distant silhouettes began to appear beyond the wall of horizontal water, and soon meshed together to form a swallowing space that tugged vigorously at his very soul. Beyond the thickness of the black hole, Cody heard a small voice. Faint and tiny and frail was the voice that spoke clearly:

"_Come with me" _

Lost cerulean eyes snapped open to find squares of marble tile and a sinkhole drain staring back. The once warm water began to feel cold, and to the change, Cody instantly snapped the various taps into their respective off positions. As residual drops fell from the ceiling, Cody headed out and quickly wrapped himself in a towel – taking care to dry off with another on his way back to his bedroom. A fully stocked walk-in closet sat mere inches away from his large bed, and in the structure, Cody found a plain blue T-Shirt to somehow match the expensive pair of denim jean pants he had long since slipped into. Having damn near suffered from severe hypothermia last time, Cody took care to grab himself a plain black jacket with twin wings flooding the back. Over one hundred shoes stared at him in anticipation before the brunette rested his socked soles in a simple pair of flat-soled sneakers. After a quick run through of his attire – and having ran a few fingers through his damp raven locks – Cody headed out of his room, leaving the door to mimic the way Ted had previously left it.

Once in the hallway, observant eyes watched in steady silence the cracked door leading to Dave Batista's room. When nothing followed through in the moment, Cody turned away and headed towards the twin staircase that lead to the main floor – and ultimately, the front door.

"This doesn't mean shit!"

Rhodes stopped at the hilt of the staircase to the sudden shout coming from the end of the long hall. Momentarily, his eyes glanced to the stairs leading to his freedom, before he hesitantly passed it, and made his way down the remainder of the hallway. Beneath the jacket, and the plain shirt, Cody's heart pumped vicariously against his chest cavity in what could only be an effort to escape his body. For twelve months he had lived in this mansion, however not once had the brunette been on the other side of the hall. It was the one place in this entire house that Ted had made off limits to everyone - including Cody. Due to this, his wanderings always ended once he got to the stairs. Beyond that was nothing short of a mystery to him. However, despite his drumming ventricles and weighty breathing, the brunette pressed on as quietly as he could. The distant voices became clearer with each step, forcing Cody to pick up on their owners.

"You need to stop being so selfish and think about the family!" Firm tone with a hint of southern twang. That was certainly Ted Senior.

"I've thought of nothing else since I was eighteen you old fuck!" If one got lost in the similarities of such the firm tone and southern accent, the words did the job of separating the two. "You're the one who's always hell bent on destroying it!" Without a doubt, that was Ted Junior.

Once at the start of the door, Cody sunk back onto the wall so as to remain unseen. His eyes craned over the edge of the door frame to find the large oak door pushed in quarter way. From this angle he could only see the back of the former Head of the Clan in Ted Senior, but the words were much clearer from here.

"I've always done what's best for you Ted!" The older DiBiase bellowed, "I've denied you nothing and I gave you everything! All I ask from you now is to open your eyes for once and see the truth!"

"I owe you nothing." Ted stated in a cold tone – new to Cody who had been privy to a tone so different from that. "And I am looking at the truth. It's standing right in front of me now."

"Ted" DiBiase senior began less firmly, "listen to yourself. Are you seriously accusing me of this mess?"

"Is there a guiltier party? You're out there buying vindictive whores who've got one hand on your dick and the other deep in your pocket, and suddenly I find you cozying up with Orton and Hunter in an effort to make me out as the fool when in reality, you all probably spent that money and want to blame Cody for your fuck-up." Loud footsteps stomped upon the tiled floor – forcing Cody to consider running back to the safety of the staircase – before stopping after a count of six. "Just admit it you stupid old man, you've always wanted nothing more than to take back your spot as Head. And now you're in prime position for that."

Due to the sudden quietness of the voices, Cody leaned past the safe zone so as to get to a better listening range. It was Ted Senior who he caught mid-sentence.

"…ten million vanishes when Cody does…" /Ten million?/Cody quickly caught himself the moment he set to react to the sum. /Ten million vanished?/

"What the hell are you doing?"

Cody turned around sharply to spot the sudden appearance of Batista's large suited frame. The Animal glared down coldly at the frightened brunette before folding his arms heavily across his chest. The intimidating stance served to cement the brunette in the knowledge that while he could answer that in a million ways, the truth was probably best.

"I-I'm…"

Without even a second of thought, Batista harshly grabbed Rhodes' skinny arm and roughly flung the brunette into the room. Immediately all eyes fell to him, only to find the brunette trying to scurry away. Dave's large frame cornered Cody – pushing him back into the large room.

"Cody?" Ted spoke softly in disbelief. The brunette turned to meet the confused expression lingering on DiBiase's face. "What are you—"

"What" Ted Senior spat rudely as he walked heavy-footed over to Cody, "in the hell" He stressed as he came to a halt in front of the scared brunette, "are you doing here boy?"

Cody glanced frantically at the old man, and then at Ted. Once there, Rhodes felt his innards calm in slow stages, only to be wrenched back into fear by the heavy hand that rested on the back of his neck – forcing him to bend awkwardly and stare into the hateful eyes of DiBiase senior.

"I asked you a question trash"

Was all the man managed to let slip out of his mouth before the clicking sound of a gun's safety being pulled away forced him to swallow the rest of his words. His eyes barely flickered over the rise of his shoulder, but the bright gold color made it easy for him at that stage to realize that _GoldDust_ was facing the back of his head with murderous intent.

"You're pointing your gun at me." Ted Senior stated rather matter-of-factly.

"Take your hands off him." The younger blonde spoke with words coated in fast drying liquid nitrogen.

"I said" The older man spoke equally as frightening – still with his hard hold clamped tightly on the back of Cody's neck vertebrae. "You're pointing your _gun_ at _me_."

In that instant, Dave's firearm sat ahead facing the square of exposed forehead standing between Ted Senior's hairline and his eyebrows. The sound of a readying aim informed DiBiase that now would be the best time to leave. With nothing but a scalding glare, the older man released his hold on Cody and exited the room encased in the kind of anger clearly visible to the eye - punctuating his exit by slamming the door shut on his way out. Once the room count retrofitted to three bodies, Ted placed his gun back into the holder and immediately gestured to Batista to lower his own. The Animal followed the silent order before stepping forward to stand next to Rhodes.

"Why are you here Cody?" Ted's soft tone returned almost like clockwork. Having extensive knowledge of what distance to keep, Ted stayed in his current spot in order to avoid scaring off a frightened looking Rhodes. "This office is off limits." To the words, he darted his eyes to Dave. "Why are you here?"

"Boss" Dave spoke stiffly, "I found Cody eavesdropping outside—"

"I-I wasn't" Cody spoke swiftly with a frantic gaze glancing to Dave for a moment before going back to Ted. "I-I was just…" He paused for a moment to gaze at the ground, "I was looking for you."

Ted's expression instantly lightened to the words. Twelve months had all but extinguished his hopes of having anything close to the relationship he used to have with Cody back in their childhood days. Now, most of his hopes to ever see that Cody Rhodes again rode solely on false waves. Yet, here was Cody, proving that even in this forgotten tunnel, there would be light at the end. Faint as it might be.

"Y-You were looking…" He exhaled roughly as his breathing faltered. "You were looking for me?" He asked with a timid smile cracking the stiffness of his face.

To the reaction, Dave frowned heavily, "Boss" Ted looked to him with focus not entirely there, "He overheard your conversation. He sneaked over here to eavesdrop and would have succeeded had I not intervened."

"Did you, Cody?"

Rhodes remained silent– shifting through his options at the moment – before bringing sheepish eyes to DiBiase's questioning gaze. "I was about to leave" He admitted "But then I heard you shouting in here, and I got worried." His fingers fiddled with the edges of his jacket, "I'm sorry I-"

"You don't have to apologize Cody." Ted spoke with a sorrowful glaze spread on his face. "Don't ever…" He sighed under a heated breath before raking pared fingernails through the roots of his hair – slicking it back in the process. "Do you need something?"

Cody stared at Ted for a moment before looking to Batista. His eyes steadied unnaturally on the older man, and remained as such even as the brunette walked over to Ted. To the unexpected closeness, Ted shifted back as coolly as he could only to run into the awkward zone and be forced to stop altogether. Cody still remained at an arm's length, but only due to DiBiase's retreating.

"I'd like to hang out with you today, but," He shrugged reticently, "you look really busy."

"I'm not." Ted replied speedily – ignoring Batista's faint 'Boss' that trailed a face that screamed worry. "I was just wrapping up. We can hang out." A giddy smile clambered over his face as a token to his inability to hide an overflow of happiness, "Where did you want to go?"

Cody thought upon the question for a moment, before looking back at the blonde with a sharpened gaze trapped in the azure waters of his hypnotic eyes, "The last place we went before you graduated."

Ted's smile dwindled down on its dose of mindless glee, as his mind caught up with a sudden knowledge. Part of him wanted nothing more than to avoid all connection with anything prior to a year ago. Yet, the other part knew for certain that Cody's surprising attitude was the one chance he had been praying for to use as a stepping stone towards winning back his friendship with Rhodes. This outing was the start of a long journey towards earning Cody's forgiveness, as well as his trust and belief in their friendship. And he was not going to pass that up.

"Okay" He replied in an effort to convince himself, "Okay, let me just get the driver—"

"No." Cody's voice fell in like lead. His eyes wandered over to Dave for a second, before returning to Ted, "Just me and you." He placed a tight grip on Ted's arm to lasso in the blonde's full attention, "Please."

The world had long since vanished to Ted, but somehow he could still feel its heavy breathing and instinctual Socrates step in and question the validity of Cody's new-found self. There had been times before where the brunette would show signs of reaching out only to retract instantly, so to that knowledge, Ted felt skeptic of Rhodes' change of heart. After all, in Cody's own words, DiBiase was nothing to him. However, on that note, Ted felt the comfort in knowing that because he was declared nothing prior to, he could honestly believe in Cody's new attitude – an attitude wherein the younger man was merely building the path of returning to Ted the status of being someone. Not even someone important. Just someone to Cody Rhodes.

"Y-Yeah. Sure." Ted spoke behind a short nod. He immediately turned to the desk behind and pulled from the top left draw a set of keys, a cell phone and his wallet. "Let's go." His arm stretched forward in a gesture to signal Cody leaving first. The brunette took up the gesture and walked by a still intimidating Dave Batista and exited the office. Ted followed behind, but was stopped by Dave's hard grasp on his upper arm.

"Boss." The older man spoke dryly, "I don't trust him."

Ted frowned angrily at Dave, "That's none of my fucking concern." Immediately, the blonde yanked his arm free from the larger man, and turned slightly to point an index finger directly at The Animal, "If I see you or any one of your underlings near Cody and me," He leaned in with a lower tone, "I will kill you."

Batista stared into the eyes of his Boss to find no hint of indecisiveness in them. Ted DiBiase, at this very moment, was dead serious. To the fact, Dave looked ahead to face the large window at the end wall, "Understood sir."

"Good." Was all Ted said as he headed out after Cody.

The door slammed shut behind the blonde. Dave continued to eye the large window – staring mindlessly at the distant city – before sighing to himself and raking large hands over the stress piled up on his face.

"Damn it" Escaped softly as his hands fell over his mouth.

* * *

><p>Lawlessness did not always exist in the world. Indeed there was injustice (sometimes more severe than most), but the act of committing mindless and blatant crimes never truly existed in the world. Then along came the Cold War. On both sides of the fence, every man woman and child were gearing up for an endless battle for simple world domination. It was literally a clash between two very distinct mindsets. On one hand, Communists sought to set everyone below the Führer. On the other hand, Democrats, Liberals, Republicans – free thinking men in their own rights wanted nothing more than to shape the world into their own ideals so very distant from the wish of having one ruler. As the years passed by with everyone readying their trigger-fingers and barricading their lives, a stillness settled upon the land. And it was during that stillness that the people began to turn on each other in an infantile form of restlessness.<p>

Inside the very bowels of a country sworn to world protection stirred a series of malicious, and vicious crimes that had neither an origin nor a motive. Never-ending were these crimes, and so only because the men in pressed uniform, the men in well-pressed black suits, and the men strapped to the hilt in green camouflage were all too busy ensuring that every last Eastern man who bowed to the feet of the Soviet Union were staring down the barrels of their ready guns. Not one person who took an oath to serve and protect truly did their own country any good during the stillness of the Cold War, and so, in those stifling months, a new kind of crime emerged. Lawlessness took a hold the hearts of people who came to realize something far more valuable than patriotism. Behind the backs of those who swore on justice, many individuals snuck around, slinking away in the shadows and committed atrocities with their bare hands as if trying to create a benchmark tally of how many could die in idle fashion.

By the time the Cold War ended, and the peace-keepers laid down their heavy weapons, America had become a soupy cocktail of violence and an insatiable love of it.

During the times after the Cold War (The Great Depressions and the like), the ones who found sick love in crime were soon hunted down by the people who swore to protect them. In no time at all, crime began to decrease, but it never truly vanished. Instead, it just became far more anarchistic. On top of love, people now did crimes for the very purpose of doing it. There was no more profit in criminal behavior. Not even greed or selfish desire. Nothing save the common phrase of "just because I can". Criminals who had developed during the Cold War became nothing more than a bunch of junkies seeking their next fix from the blood of innocent people. All seemed hopeless for the American law enforcer (especially given the fact that crime was hard to punish when it had no true motive to begin with) until the very men they once pointed guns at landed on their shores. Germans, Russians, ex-communicated men of Hitler and Stalingrad were the first to rush to the shores of America and set up post in places that had been considered the very pit of evil. In no time at all, Organized Crime began to take root as mobs, mafias, yakuza, Cartels, and Italian families moved in to cleanse the city of its mindless ways. And they did so by giving the helpless crime-junkies a reason to break the law.

Initiation. This is where a person was given the chance to do something in order to become part of an organized crime group (be it a lowly gang or a deep-rooted mafia). Initiations were often considered chores by higher ups and normally consisted of things they didn't want to do themselves. After initiation, came introduction. This was basically a title giving ceremony where a criminal became a literal part of the group – normally amounting to nothing more than a grub in the eyes of that group. Once introduction went by, enrollment was next. This was where it all happened for a lowly crime-junkie. This was the part where the upper echelon of the group recognized them as being part of that group. The second a criminal is enrolled into an organized crime group, be certain that the group's purpose and goals become his sole purpose and goal.

Strange as it might seem, in an ironic way the East with their hated Communism ended up being the very thing that saved the West from its own free-spiritedness. After all, take the heart of man and one can make him do anything. In the case of Organized Crime, the hearts of men were often turned to a goal far too appealing to pass up – goals like money, and power - but in rare cases, the goal was simply not enough to fully possess a beating heart.

The latter stood true for a man named Eduardo Gory "Eddie" Guerrero. For the majority of his life, Eddie had lived in the slums of the only part of the West that had been completely forgotten during the Cold War. Born and raised in Mexico, Eddie's life was anything but easy seeing that he was heir to a well known Mexican Cartel who believed that it was their destiny to invade America during its crime spree and become the dominant species. For most of his life, Eddie did believe in such a farce, and even believed it more when America turned so violently on itself. However, when it came to invade, Eddie fled to Japan amidst the chaos and stayed in the now peaceful East (peaceful due to the majority of overbearing Yakuza had long since traveled to America in hopes of being the top dogs there) until the dust settled entirely. When Guerrero returned, he found America stronger than ever seeing that they had engulfed nearly every bit of crime organizations that had existed in the world - finding an extraordinary way to co-exist with the blend of criminal groups. However, in all this time, the Mexican Cartels never truly made it to the top of the list. In fact, it was Columbia who ended up being part of the upper class of criminal here in the United States. Such a fact bore heavy on Eddie. Indeed he was glad to see that his Cartel brethren were nowhere to be found seeing that they would have killed him the moment he stepped foot on American soil, but in the same breath, that small Cartel was all he knew. They were his family.

Years would go by, and out of sore disgrace and a fear of death Eddie never returned to Mexico. Rather he stayed in the armpit of America –New York – and set up a small bar near the East-end of the city. It was certainly far out of his niche; however the east was closest to the sea. A valuable escape route in the event that the Russians decided to rid their territory of other non-Russians – or by some chance the Cartel straggled in to end the life of the man who abandoned them. All in all, for five years Eddie worked hard on ensuring the prosperity of his bar. He named it Sixth Street Bar and Grill solely because he wanted to draw as little attention as he could from the wrong crowd.

You see, Eddie was never a truly bad guy. His Cartel blood never got to his heart or his head like most gang members, and so he was truly passionate in his search for a better life. And the better life did come to Eddie in the form of Vickie Lynn. In a time where the East was running wild in America by giving meaning to crime and thus hardening their own forces in the very belly of the beast, Hispanics and Lationos were few and far between. Worse yet, there were only a handful here in New York –especially on the northeast coast – and as such Eddie never truly believed his eyes the moment they fell on Vickie's face. He never guessed he would meet a woman who could speak his language so very far from a struggling Mexico. Yet there she was – beautiful, strong-willed and passionate about a culture she only knew in passing. In no time at all, Eddie fell in love. And in even less time, the two were married.

With Vickie's guiding heart – and the introduction of their first born girl – the stony bar tucked away in a forgotten corner was quickly renamed La Familia. As the years went by, and Vickie sat expecting their second child, La Familia had become sort of a group in its own right. To begin with, the bar itself became a haven for people who had been subject to the sharper sides of criminal organizations. As the bar grew, it became known for its warm and caring atmosphere, and soon enough it gathered those who had lost their hearts to crime. People who had accepted the world for what it was – a false deity of lawfulness – began to turn away from the only life they thought they had. Eddie Guerrero changed people in a way that painful initiations, handcuffs, and prison sentences never could. Eddie made people better simply because of his belief that everyone and anyone were all part of his family.

Merely a month after their second child was born, Eddie Guerrero was found dead in his bedroom. The cause of death was pronounced as a heart attack, but upon further investigation it was shown that an overdose of anti-psychotics had done him in.

"He always believed that the Cartel would come after him and take away his family" Chris spoke huskily as he exited the car, "Paranoia isn't something to joke about."

"I know." Spoke the sheepish voice of his partner Bourne – who trailed after him in a sullen mood. This was probably the last time the brunette would ever speak before thinking.

Jericho merely glanced at the younger man, before facing the door. Its red color was certainly easy enough to spot, but it was the over sized sign hanging above that truly sat as a marker for this place. As Chris ran his ever-analyzing blue eyes over the letters strewn ahead, he came to realize how much soul this place had lost. Indeed, it was still very much a haven for the damned, but it wasn't the free-spirited kind. It lacked the light that would draw in even the blackest of hearts. Hearts like former Detective Chris Benoit – a man who had seen so much of death that life was never possible. A man whom Eddie had changed so much, that when he passed, Benoit rapidly lost his way and was entirely swallowed into the molten tar that drowned him to the core. La Familia today was a paradise with a price. A brothel in better terms. A whore-house in realism. The shabby exterior, with its rotting bricks and peeling paint and half cracked dirty windows, served as mere side dishes to what the inside looked like. The last time Chris stepped foot in this place, the overbearing stench of cheap perfume and bodily fluids were so impactful that now they were the only things he could associate La Familia with. In a way, such a realization was depressing. After all, the man who built this place was what many people thrive to be. He was a good man. An honest man. But he was nonetheless, human. And for that, a place once known for its warmth and nearly god-like forgiveness, turned into an ugly stain on a strip common folk would rather have razed to the ground.

"Should we get a warrant?"

Jericho stared a bit longer at the sign, before focusing his intense gaze on the obstructive door. "Not necessary." He spoke dryly, "I know the owner."

"The owner?" The noise of paper being crunched and flipped told Chris that Evan was – once again – fumbling through his notepad. "Mrs. Gurerroro."

"Former." Chris sternly interfered – eyes still holding on to the closed door. "I already know the story Bourne." His voice mirrored his hard expression, "Stop wasting time yapping and find yourself a spine to hold onto."

Evan snapped his notepad shut with eased fluidity. "You're taking the Giants' loss pretty hard." Slipped through a light smirk.

Jericho glanced to Evan, before looking back at the door. "I had a bet on them." His frown returned, "Fucking left footers."

The door swiftly pulled open – after the sound of a series of chains and locks being cracked open had come through – to reveal the large and muscular build of a long haired blonde standing in the dark doorway. Even without the cloaks and daggers, the person was truly intimidating. For that, Evan found himself quickly regretting not grabbing onto that spine Chris had instructed him to siege.

"Hello Beth" Chris' stern voice simmered to a cool greeting.

The reaction put Evan on a pedestal of strange feelings (after all, given Jericho's expression, casual was the last thing anyone would have expected to season the older man's words), but what truly set him a full step back was the simple realization that the hulking mass of tight muscles and well-stretched flesh was actually female. At a complete loss for words, Evan stood dumbfounded a few feet behind his partner as his mind tried hard to make out on what his eyes were seeing - all the while searching for the part that could be considered female at all. The dark backdrop did little to aid Bourne and so he was left to his own astonishment for the moment.

"I came to see Vickie." Chris spoke once more to the wall of intimidation glaring daggers at both men from behind the swallowing shadows. "Oh." Jericho piped in as he glanced momentarily to a staggeringly confused Evan Bourne, "This is a part-time leech, Evan Bourne." To his names, Evan found the will to regain consciousness, only to have it struck out of him once again by the hard stare from beyond the red door. "He doesn't need to see her."

To the causal shrug off, Evan quickly intervened, "What my _partner_" He stressed, "is trying to say is that we're doing an investigation and it's important that _we_ speak to Mrs. Guerrero."

Jericho lolled his gaze from left to right in an indolent fashion as the figure beyond the poorly lit doorway stepped forward to reveal a set of massive breasts almost taped down by an enveloping halter-back full-body black latex suit. Still, as relieving as the sight was, the appearance of a realistic looking cleavage did not lessen the woman's imposing figure. She was still very, very muscular.

"You will refer to her as Boss little man" She spoke firmly. "And the Boss is very busy so come back in another hundred years."

The door began to move back towards the two Detectives, when suddenly another hand appeared to stop it completely. All three participants looked to the hand – with only Beth having a first view of the suspect.

"What do you think you're doing eh?" A far more inviting voice scolded the large woman, before an equally well built female stepped forth into the light. She was dressed in latex too, however hers was not only light colored (white and pink as opposed to black and gold), but it was in three parts. First was the bodice that could easily be just a bra. Next was the short jacket with sleeves coating over the majority of her hands (leaving only the fingers to peek through).Last was the tights serving as a good contender to become her second skin. Despite being just as built as Beth, this woman – with her inviting smile and warm aura – was far less threatening to Evan. "Oh my" She spoke sweetly as her eyes caught a good look at the two suits standing on the step. "Aren't you a cutie?"

Jericho scoffed to a light chuckle, while Beth looked on arrogantly. Evan looked at everyone only to discover that the words had been directed at him. His standing pride shattered to pieces.

Regardless, Evan forced himself into the shoes of his profession – keeping in mind the greater necessity at hand. "My partner and I" Chris stopped laughing. "have a few questions regarding your employer Vickie Guerroro and her affiliation with a woman named Melina Roucka."

"Rosa?" The chirpy blonde replied. She glanced to Beth –whose hard face had now cracked with a hint of worry – before looking back at the men stood at the doorstep. "What's going on with Rosa? More importantly, who are you guys? Clients?"

"Clients?" Evan spoke a bit taken aback by the outrageous classification. He glanced to his suit and began to understand the gross misunderstanding. Then, he looked to Jericho, and fell flat. In no uncertain terms did his fellow Detective look anything like a sex craved business man. Rather, the blonde suited the role of 'hit man carved from stone' quite well.

"They're police, Nat." Beth slid in like a hot knife on butter to immediately calm the situation.

"Police?" The woman in white bellowed, "Seriously?!" She looked back in shock at Evan, and pointed "Even that cutie?! Impossible!"

In an instant, Bourne felt the last bit of his humanity break away into the charcoal nothingness that was his empty pride. The word in itself did damage. Being renounced as an impossible officer of the law hurt just as much. However, what really did it for the young brunette was the sound of his older partner snickering away beneath the fumes of a half-done cigarette. The weight of having been called out to such an extent proved to be too much for the brunette and thus left him with nothing to say.

"Anyways," It was Beth who chimed once more to steer the conversation back on course. "You guys can come in." She moved aside – rudely pushing back the other girl – "The Boss has been expecting you."

"Expecting us?" Evan spoke softly as Chris joined him inside, "But we just got here"

Jericho heaved a long dose of his self-proclaimed mistress, "She means me." He threw his cold eyes to Evan as the light behind them dwindled to the closing door, "You stay here."

In any other circumstance, Evan knew for certain that he would have fought tooth and nail with such a decision. After all, they were partners, and partners stay together at all times. However, ever since the decision to come to La Familia had been made (a rather quick one at that, seeing that Chris did not hesitate to swiftly eliminate the other two prospects) and possibly even before all that, Bourne honestly began to feel the iciness of a one-sided work relationship. For some reason, ever since they got this case, the usually non-caring, non-insistent, non-anything Chris Jericho stepped away from his home in the background to take front and center stage while keeping at bay the man titled 'partner'. It was based on that analysis that Evan found his own conclusion. Something about this case had turned on Jericho's work switch. Something about this case drove the once docile Detective out of the shell of his former self. There was something about this case, and in this moment Evan knew the best tactic would be to stake out what that 'something' truly was.

"Alright." After much thought, Evan replied to the order and watched as Beth joined Chris to enter a hidden back room behind the wrap-around bar.

Once the door shut behind them both, Evan allowed himself to mistakenly relax, only to regret it the moment the other woman's smiling face popped up over his shoulder. Instantly, he shuffled in the direction most away from the intruder, and found himself stuck to a bar stool. In an act of obvious wound-licking, Bourne loudly dragged out one of the stools and sat atop its padded cushion.

"You really are cute."

Evan glared a bit at the woman before letting out a long sigh, "Stop saying that. It's creepy." His face returned with a mask of stern, "And besides, I'm a Detective remember. I'm here to investigate you guys."

"Oh. Is that so?" She spoke lightly, "Well, at least one of you is."

"What?" Confusion clearly laced every orifice of his being.

"Police I mean." She smiled sweetly – nearly white washing Evan's resolve to disliking her constant touts, "I don't think you're law enforcement."

"Ah." To the strangeness of it all, Evan gave a small laugh. He quickly pulled out his ID case and immediately shoved the gold shield in the woman's face. "See?" A professional tone enveloped his voice as if to make a clear distinction, "Law enforcement"

For a while, the woman looked at the badge as though it were a rare artifact before leaning away and smiling in triumph, "Detective Bourne huh?" Evan nodded politely as he placed the badge back into the inner left breast pocket of his jacket. "My name is Natalya."

"Natalya." Evan thought for a moment, "So that's where Nat comes from."

"Yeah." She chuckled lightly, "Beth has a way of being lazy when it comes to me." Her eyes steadied on Evan in a studious fashion, "You too right?"

"Huh?" He asked a bit perplexed, "What do you mean?"

"Your partner." Natalya scoffed as she brushed back a curl of unruly blonde hair, "He's pretty lazy too isn't he?"

"No." Spewed out half-truthfully. In essence, Chris was lazy. But then again, their investigation was moving along so quickly all thanks to Jericho's amazing investigative skills. "He just has a different way of showing motivation" Sounded a lot more convincing inside his head.

"Is that so?" The blonde asked with a tinge of understanding in her voice, "Well, whatever. You were asking about Rosa, right?"

In a sense, Evan felt a bit let down by the sudden turn of events. For some reason, the brunette had wanted to talk more about Chris, and yet here they were talking about Rosa. The moment Evan discovered his depression, he mentally slapped himself in the head. This was an investigation, not a chit-chat. "Right."

"We get so many new people in that it's hard to keep track of them all, but it's my job to remember people so I do." She folded her arms laxly under her bosom, "Rosa started working for us a few months ago. She's what you would call a natural. She worked it like a true professional to the point where she'd get paid without having to do anything at all." A sigh fled Natayla's red lips, "Her popularity soon spread to the upper echelon and we started getting requests from guys in the Black Shield."

"The Black Shield?" Evan asked – truly intrigued – as he took out his trusty notepad and pen "Who requested her?"

"A couple of nobodies at first, but then a demand came in from one of the richest men in the country."

"Ted DiBiase" Bourne spoke mostly to himself as he jotted down the name in his sharp handwriting, "So, Ted requested her." His eyes fled back up to Natalya, "Did he do that last week?"

"Yeah." She spoke a bit withdrawn, "He'd take her away for days and then return her on Wednesday, only for a car to come by and drive her home. He treated her like she was VIP."

"Didn't you guys request that she come back on that day?"

"Is that what you heard?" Natayla let out a small laugh, "We never request anyone back. Once they're paid for in full, they're the client's problem." She looked away for a second, before continuing on, "I don't know much of what Ted would do with her, and I don't know why that old coot brought her back every Wednesday. All I know is that when he came here he bought her on a whim." A painfully feigned smile crossed Natalya's face, "The DiBiase's are known to do that. Just recently Ted Junior bought himself a man." Her eyes went sullen, "So un-cute huh."

Evan tried in earnest to make sense of where Natayla had picked up her sudden change of mood, but found it easier to focus on the task at hand. /That old coot./ He parroted in his mind, /So it was Ted Senior who bought Rosa./ He studied the notes scribbled on the pages of his notepad and immediately tucked it away in his pocket.

"Were you jealous of Rosa, Natalya?"

A tinge of shock hit Natalya's face. In that second, Evan deduced that he had hit the nail on the head, however Natalya had long since decided to prove the theory right, "Yes." She spoke softly, "I was. We all were. A lot of money can buy a lot of things." She squeezed the sides of her arms tightly, "Even freedom."

Instantly, Evan looked to the floor in thought. He felt sad for Natalya just as much as he did for Rosa. However, in his mind, Bourne knew he could never convey such feelings of distraught. Not when he knew nothing but freedom his entire life.

"I'm sorry for your loss." He spoke in a close monotone, "But getting freedom by selling yourself is more costly than you think Natalya." The blonde looked to Evan with a hint of apprehension laced into her large eyes, "Rosa paid the ultimate price because of it. You…" Brown eyes looked on sympathetically at the blonde, "Both of you should get out of this life while you still can. I don't want to put a tag on either one of you." He paused for a moment before slightly looking away, and digging into his left jacket pocket – withdrawing a perfectly cut piece of paper.

Natalya outstretched her slender arm to take the offering – flipping it over to find a small N.Y.P.D logo stitched into the top left hand corner, and floating above the name Evan Bourne with a series of numbers below that. Her crystal blue eyes lingered on the strip of paper in an effort to seek out the meaning behind it all.

"The second number belongs to my personal cell phone." The blonde looked over with eyes slowly distancing themselves from suspicion. Evan smiled lightly, "Don't ever hesitate to call. I'll come running before you know it."

A frail smile graced Natalya's face, but soon fell on the part of her mind that had long since chained her hopes and dreams – reminding her of who she was, and who she'll always be. "You're very good at reading people, Evan." She spoke softly to start, "Just like me."

"I'll take that compliment over being cute." He chuckled lightly.

"But it's true though." Natalya's low voice slipped in barely noticed, "And it's because of that no one will ever notice."

"Notice?" Evan inquired a bit lost on the topic, "Notice what?"

Her smile wavered, but did nothing to not sharpen her eyes, "Don't worry." To Evan's befuddlement, Natalya's gaze intensified, "I know how to keep a secret."

"What are you—?"

"I already told you Evan." She cocked her head lightly to the side – letting slip a handful of soft blonde hair over her shoulder, "My job is to remember people." Her eyes darted to the spot of tweed fabric coating Evan's left breast pocket, "And I don't remember you."

* * *

><p>Had this been the nineties and early two-thousands, the large door opening to reveal a plush red room – decked out with the latest on surveillance and highly sophisticated office furniture (the kind that comes straight from the mind of some Mafioso Godfather) – would not have had a woman seated in the belly of its burgundy leather chair, with a naked blonde held forcibly upright in a nearby corner by a series of chains and locks. Eddie Gurerro was never that kind of man. Vickie Gurerro wasn't that kind of woman either. However, being dropped from a peaceful and simple life into the lap of something as violent and merciless as organized crime can change a person twice as fast as money can. Vickie – or Boss as her workers called her – was no stranger to such a truth. The day she widowed was the day her life fell apart. In an instant, the once kind-hearted and mother-hen woman turned cold and ruthless. Such was evident in her line of work.<p>

La Familia to the world was nothing shy of a brothel. An expensive brothel, but a brothel nonetheless. For the most part, the business managed to keep its money as clean as dirty money could get. Nonetheless, as Vickie's heart blackened over the years, so did her line of work. Eventually, to the handful of people who had access to the realism of life, La Familia descended into furthest depths of hell when it opened up a new line of business. Human Auctioning. A new breed of slavery that entailed a three part series. First, a person would be either, brought, bartered or sold to La Familia. Once there, the newly acquired slave was given a faint brand on the upper back of their right shoulder. The brand was a small trifecta that was applied far too lightly to really notice upon first glance. On the blonde standing with his naked back facing Jericho, the brand had been replaced with a large mark carrying Vickie's signature. Without even looking (or having wanted to for that matter) Detective Jericho knew for certain that the half-dead man held the same brand on his chest – a symbol knew by few to be that of Vickie's personal toys. Having personally known someone who wore such a mark, and knowing the misery that the mark carried, Chris truly sympathized with the young man. Nevertheless, for slaves awaiting the gallows of the auction stage, the future was far worse. Every crime lord, syndicate and Black Shield Head filled a once empty room and huddled like Antarctic penguins around a small stage. Each new slave was brought out in groups of five and bid on accordingly. For the top prizes, Vickie would have them perched in a cage, set on the stage all by themselves and forcibly start the bid at the highest price. Damaged goods went for a good price – often times there would be a discount (two for the price of one and the like) – however, for the ones so heavily deteriorated, they would often be given away for free to the lesser classed criminals. Human auctioning was horrifying as it was unlawful, however despite standing in front of the seated conductor, Detective Jericho could do nothing with his powers of the law. To begin with, he legally had no right to be here. No warrant or anything. To end with, this "off the books" meeting was not about the man standing in the corner or the countless slaves packed away in hidden dungeons and containers. This was not even about finally bringing some prestige back to the place even he had once come to respect. This was about the dead woman in the still picture.

"Poor Rosa." Vickie spoke lightly as she gently touched the picture, "She was my most obedient girl." Beth glanced to her Boss, to find Vickie still eying the photograph. "But I should have expected this." She looked to Chris as her fingers slid the picture back towards him. "Good people can't survive in a world like this."

Jericho took the photo from the edge of the table, and looked at it for a moment, "Good people" He spoke with eyelids drooping to thought, before scoffing and returning the photo back to his pocket. "Rosa was a good person then?"

"No. She was quite mischievous." Vickie picked up the small remote seated on the right side of her large desk, and instantly pressed the red button at the top. "Nothing compared to your partner there though."

To the sound of a small voice not belonging to anyone in the room, the Detective turned to find the once-believed black panel stationed above the door behind him, now broadcasting a bird-eye view of Evan looking through the cabinets that stood high above the bar. Chris soon found himself seething with anger as he watched Evan pick through various items that had been stuffed into small spaces. /That idiot!/ Came to Jericho's mind the longer his blue eyes (now buried beneath a heavy frown) focused on the man called 'partner'. Neither man had a warrant nor did they have superior permission to even be here asking questions, so with that knowledge it was common sense that anything in those cabinets would be inadmissible in court. Regardless, Evan continued to dig as Vicki grinned at the sight. Clearly she understood what little grounds both men had –and that was something Jericho wanted to avoid at all costs. Over two decades of being a part of law enforcement, the blonde had learned many things. The most important of them all was to never let the bad guy call your bluff. Vickie had allowed them in based on the idea that this was all a legit process of elimination, but Evan sifting through enemy territory with nothing save a badge and a fitted suit called their hand – leaving Chris with a useless pile of chips with which to bet with. Such a mistake would have been forgivable had Evan Bourne been some run-off-the-mill-day-one-beat-cop and not a sprinkle-seasoned member of law enforcement (Jericho choosing now to legitimize a fraud department he once labelled paper-pushers). However, in this case it was the latter. And as Chris watched Bourne raid another cabinet he felt the itching desire to shoot the brunette – cut out the problem altogether – but quickly chose to save the bullets. If he could not salvage this interrogation, every bullet would count.

Despite his raging ire, the video continued to roll on in relative silence. Jericho's eyes watched as Bourne turned his head sharply to the right and fumbled about to get from behind the bar counter and return to the nearest bar stool. In a matter of nanoseconds, Natalya walked into the line of camera sight, and with a quick press of a button, the screen went black in an instant.

"He's certainly not what I would have expected in your partner Chris" Jericho drew his annoyed gaze back to Vickie, "But I will credit him on being absolutely adorable." She smiled coyly, "If you ever get tired of him, don't hesitate to bring him to this room. I'll pay the best price."

Chris scoffed slightly, "I'm sure you would, but New York's finest prefer their mark of allegiance to be gold and sewn on pressed leather. Branding isn't our thing." A small smile carved through the left side of his face, "I'll consider it though when my next month's rent is due."

"I'll keep you to your word."

"You do that." The faint smile dwindled away rapidly as his tone grew more serious, "But my word means nothing when its spoken to a criminal."

Vickie chuckled darkly before letting out a long laugh. "Even in death you and Adam are inseparable." In an instant, she was to her feet, before taking up residence on the edge of her desk by leaning on it. "Are you going to throw me a Reno line next?"

Chris grinned thinly, "On my next visit." His tone shied away into the blanket of stoic as his expression went rigid to the tension he was now creating, "So, did Randy buy Rosa?"

"Randy?" She shook her head momentarily, "As cruel as that brat is, he would never buy another woman. Goes against his marriage vows and such." She smirked dubiously, "And of course there is the rumor that he's straightly gay."

"Have your cake and eat it too huh?"

"You know it all too well." Her smile fell briefly as she thought upon something distant, "Anyways, Rosa was bought by Ted Senior. The old man had walked in here accidentally and I managed to sell Rosa to him."

"Accidentally?" Chris inquired, curious "Was he looking for something else?"

"Not something." She stressed, "Someone." Her arms folded lightly across her chest. A near forgotten Beth turned and walked over to a closet hidden by a pair of sliding doors. Vickie continued undeterred, "A few weeks ago, Ted Senior walks into our humble abode with twenty armed men behind him. They nearly tore the place apart, but I managed to get them under control and talk to him in private back here." Beth returned and handed Vickie a large brown envelope. "After about a couple minutes, and a few drinks, he handed me this."

To the word, Chris focused his stare onto the package hanging off Vickie's outstretched arm. Catiously he took it from her, "What is this?" He asked, whilst running observant eyes over the blank surfaces of the sealed object.

"I have no idea. I never opened it." She replied callously. "Ted just handed it to me and asked me to destroy it. And then he asked me about the rules of human auctioning."

"The rules?" Chris inquired with eyes now flicked back to Vickie.

"For some reason he wanted to know if a slave could ever return here once its bought." Jericho silently flinched to Vickie's nonchalance when it came to referring to slaves as_ it_. "I told him no of course. Once you buy it, it's your problem for however long you keep it alive." Her brows furrowed a bit in thought, "Then he asked if I would ever house a runaway. Again I told him no, and that if a runaway ever showed up here I wouldn't hesitate to lock it up and contact it's master." She shrugged nonchalantly, "After that, he just smiled, bought the girl I was trying to sell him and withdrew his men. Soon after, you and your cute friend show up on my doorstep to tell me that the girl's dead."

Chris thought to himself for a while – diverging between the desire to rip open this folder right here, or continuing to seep information out of a surprisingly docile Vickie Guerrero.

"We had it down as apparent suicide." The latter won out. "On closer inspection, it's clear she was murdered. Violently at that."

"How?" Vickie questioned in a cool tone.

"Forced to intake about two gallons worth of motorbike oil. A steel pipe," He motioned with his finger, "run down her throat to act as a funnel."

Vickie sighed heavily, "That's a horrible way to go." Her eyes flicked to the floor momentarily, "Do you know who did it?"

"The long handed answer" Chris started with a sigh, "No. The powers that be doesn't think of the death of a prostitute as being a matter of National Security. Her killer will probably be long gone by the time my superiors get around to lending a truly helping hand."

Vickie looked back to Chris' stoic expression, "What's the short hand?"

Chris scoffed a bit as he tucked the folder away in the space between his arm and his side, "I know who killed her. And this" He motioned to the folder, "will tell me why."

A lattice of confusion wove onto Vickie's slightly knitted brows, "I know I've asked you this many times before, but how can you be so sure?"

He cracked a half-moon smile on his face, "I've been consulting a dead man who's never been wrong."

Initially, Vickie could not help but sell an abysmal form of perplexity across her face, before the words spoken sunk into the deepest caverns of her mind for processing. Once she took hold of the context, her expression lightened back to its original form of nonchalance and maturity. Beth walked over to her and placed a quick hand on her shoulder. Vickie glanced knowingly to her before looking back at Chris.

"Well Detective Jericho," She eased off the table's edge to stand completely in her four inch heels, "I have a business to run. It's now time for the men in black to leave my premises." She smiled coyly, "Can't have you two lurking about and scaring away my customers, now can I?"

"No." Jericho chuckled lightly, "No you wouldn't want that." He placed his hands in his pockets, "I have to take the little one back unfortunately, so please call off your blonde bloodhound"

"Natalya?" Vickie folded her arms across her chest, "How did you know?"

"Killers are the easiest people to read."

Vickie scoffed dryly, "Don't act all high and mighty just because you kill in the name of justice."

"Justice." His tone fell dramatically, "That would be nice." His smile returned from a dark place only to land on the icy chill that frosted his face, "I'll see you around Vickie."

"Not too soon I hope." She called as the blonde turned away to exit the room.

The door locked shut behind the retreating Detective. Vickie looked on analytically as though trying to recreate (mentally) the image of Chris Jericho standing in the room.

"Are you sure about this Boss?"

Having lived with her for over ten years, Vickie could easily tell whom it was that had spoken, "About what?" She asked with intent to create a red herring.

Beth picked up on the subtle act and headed to completely weed it out of the equation, "Not only is Chris law enforcement, he's the best friend of that ingrate who betrayed us."

"Ingrate?" Vickie laughed heartily for a brief moment, before composing herself to an air of authority, "I don't like it when people badmouth my exes Beth." She glared coldly at the bigger woman - forcing fear to pour out of Beth's expression, "You don't want to end up like Dolph here do you?" Beth stiffly shook her head - twice as if anything more would have her hanging beside the blonde slave chained in the room, "Good girl. Now let's go." Her tone firmed, "We have customers waiting."

* * *

><p>The road ahead began to vanish beneath the passing headlights. The nothingness of the city outskirts flashed by in jagged proportions – each with their own shade of darkness filling into them like water in a bucket. Texas was now almost a forgotten state; another footnote in their seemingly never ending journey. Anxious to cross state lines before the sun returned, Mark had left earlier than planned the moment he returned with supplies for the trip. However, for all his rushing the kid didn't eat a morsel of any of the stuff Mark brought back – the younger man even ignored his acquired favorites – and instead chose to feast on his own damaging silence. In some weird corkscrew of fate, a lifetime of solitude should have made the DeadMan used to this silence, however the last ten years had changed all that. Now Phil had grown on Mark so completely that the older man found it difficult to dream up a life without him. And whenever his mind tried to wade in those kinds of waters, Mark would simply discard of the thought altogether and immerse himself in the warm and cozy feeling that surrounded this strange companionship – even though his companion had never once spoken a word.<p>

"You wanna go in the back and grab some sleep?" Mark inquired to ward off the cloaking stillness.

The younger man simply bunched closer to the passenger door. Through the reflective surface of the passenger-side window, Mark could clearly see that the brunette was still wide awake and still wearing the frown he had on when Calaway returned to the motel and found him huddled up in the bathtub. Ten years of traveling together had taught Mark a few things about his companion. One, he hated to be alone. Two, he hated to be locked into small places. And Mark had gone and done both in one night.

"How long are you gonna keep ignoring me?" His eyes glanced to the younger man, only to find the disappointing sight of a blanketed back staring at him. "Phil?" He called – slightly pained by the response of silence.

Realizing the futility of it all, Mark turned to the Honda's radio and sorted through the jumbled signals until he found the only station working on this forsaken stretch of road. Soothing choruses seeped into the tight-knit fabrics of the silent duo, as a group of faceless people sung praises and hymns in perfect harmony. The sound was beautiful – even to a man who didn't believe in that sort of thing – and it eased the tension a bit as both men became captivated by the highs and lows about a song preaching the strength of pure mercy.

A word even the demon Mark Calaway had known once before.

* * *

><p><em>Through eyes now bleeding and busted at the seams, Mark stared shakily at the struggling hand that clutched to his leg. Veins that had not been present twenty years ago now aimed to push through the thin membrane of skin heavily affected by a withering age. Beneath the heads of low-cut fingernails laid clots of dried blood that was a cocktail mix of the two men. The sound of his own heavy breathing seemed to disappear as he watched the hand steadily grab hold of his dirty pants and hoist up a broken arm. Balance lost itself to Mark for a moment (a direct result of having his skull cracked open moments ago) and he staggered to regain it. His gaze shifted half-dead at the bloody body rising from the black pit below Mark's feet. The pit where he had cast down all those countless souls. Calaway watched motionless and silent, as the body clambered up from the mass of corpses to showcase a pair of unmoving eyes – eyes belonging neither to a man resigned to death nor to a man willing to fight for his life. What stared up at Mark Calaway were eyes deadest on dragging the larger man down into the gaping mouth of that black nadir below. <em>

_What stared back at Mark Calaway was his own death._

_To the icy feel, Mark grabbed hold of his fleeting strength and vigorously shook his leg to rid himself of the escaping corpse. However, the hand still clung on and soon reached his thigh. Once there, the entire body moved near lifelessly to place itself on broken knees so as to force the dying man to face Mark. In between dense and staggered breaths, those cold eyes returned beneath matted locks pasted down by coagulated blood. For a second time Mark tried to shake the body off, but this only brought a soft grin to the face of the half-dead man._

"_Stay down!" Mark shouted in guttural exhaustion – nearly choking on a mouthful of his own coagulating blood. "Just stay down!"_

_To the command, the smile fled the instant the gaze sharpened on Calaway's confused face. A staidness swam above both men momentarily before the man at Mark's feet drew up his other hand to reveal the concealed gun glued to a set of chapped and bloodied fingertips. Glimmering pieces of a fragmented full moon snaked over the silver surface of the killing machine - catching hold of the recognizable emblem etched into its handle –as the man steadied the weapon onto Mark's frozen body. To follow, a shaking finger drew back the now heavy safety away from the on position. In that instant, Calaway's world vanished as the pit beneath his feet pulsated with new-found greed. It called to The Undertaker once more to feed it. And with the echoing sound of the Jackal's trigger being squeezed, The Undertaker did not keep it waiting._

* * *

><p>"And He said unto the Israel his people, 'I shall show thee mercy and loving kindness if thee only bestow it upon thy fellow man'. Mercy" The voice stressed, "is the gift we all possess. And it is with this gift that we can all bestow forgiveness unto others, as well as unto ourselves. So tonight—"<p>

Glancing slightly over the rise of his steady arm, Mark spotted a set of pale, slender fingers as they withdrew away from the now silent radio back into the crouching frame of the younger man. Overcast jades watched with effortlessness as Phil continued to pay full attention to his own reflection showcased in the glassiness of the shut window. The sight brought a light smile to Calaway's face as he returned focused eyes back on the darkened road ahead.

"Phil." Mark called gently – nearly drowning the words beneath the heaviness of the breath that followed. The young brunette continued to ignore the presence of Calaway by moving closer to his passenger door. Mark glanced to him idly before staring back at the road ahead –gripping the steering wheel tightly as he did so. "About what I did…for everything, I'm—." His teeth grit against one another, "It's going to be long drive, so you'd better grab some sleep." Replaced all the words he wanted to say.

A silent moment passed where only the low hums and purrs of a well taken care of engine shifted in for sound, before the touch of gentle fingers ran over the bracket of Mark's elbow. Calaway looked over to it and trailed the slim arm back to the owner. At the hilt, the older man found a timid yet calming smile sitting well below the glow of a tender gaze housed in the soft gelatin of large tea green eyes. The longer Mark drank in the kind expression, the harder his insides worked to keep at bay the sudden wave of irregular heartbeats that flooded his chest cavity.

More recently than ever before, it was times like this where Mark instantly wanted to lean over and kiss the supple lips of the younger brunette.

However, the years of travel had not only hardened his reserve to wave those moments goodbye as they passed by – the years had also taught him how best to eradicate such compromising emotions. When he had no room in which he could forcibly lock away the tempting brunette, Mark simply pulled away from the life-draining touch and focused on something else entirely. In this case, the black road ahead served as a good distraction – one he used to the fullest by steering cold eyes unmoving unto it. Beside the older man – having had his gesture flung back at him - Phil looked away to spot an eerily identical reflection wearing an overwhelming amount of sadness on its face. In this moment, Phil huddled to himself, closed his eyes, and forced himself into a deep sleep.


	7. Shest'

_The ground was, at the very least, one hundred feet away. A dry summer wind – built up from pressure up above – came barreling down on them, knocking the suspended lift briefly off kilter. To the feel of his equilibrium shifting, Cody clutched his seat tightly by further rooting his stub fingernails into the stuffing beneath the distressed leather. His eyes welded shut as he bit his lower lip in an effort to fight the urge to pass out. _

"_Cody." Softly flowed to the brunette's ears to act as a crowbar that pried open the younger man's large blue eyes. "Cody" Called again – this time with success, as the brunette finally opened his eyes to look at the older blonde seated ahead._

_His best friend, Ted DiBiase. _

_Ted smiled as Cody squinted – a clear sign of his still present fear of keeping visual track of the distance from whence they hung from. "You want to sit over here?" Cody glanced to the empty spot Ted was gesturing to in a panic – weighing his options behind the gelatinous sapphire of his eyes – before deciding to shake his head rigidly and close his eyes shut once more. _

_To the reaction, DiBiase could not help but chuckle ever so lightly. On one hand, he felt sorry for his friend – Cody had wanted to ride the Ferris wheel no matter what, and in some form of cruel fate, the thing hit a snag and broke down, trapping both boys at the very top. On the other hand, DiBiase felt that this was just the moment they needed to cement something that was to already be a forgone conclusion. _

"_Cody"_

_To his name, Rhodes once again convinced himself to open his eyes, only to find the seat ahead empty. It was then a new panic set in – but only for a moment, as no sooner did the brunette start to think the worst, did Ted's hand clutch onto his. Scared eyes turned to face Ted's calm and warm expression – which in turn, began to rub off on Cody, as he found the where with it all to follow where Ted's eyes had set upon. _

_It was Coney Island, from over one hundred feet up. A beautiful array of coasters, and fast-paced machinery all festooned by a colorful cocktail of carnival décor, and a variety of people from all around the world – all of which morphed into tiny, dotted specs the further away they were. The view was breath-taking – enough so to take Cody's mind off the fact that he and Ted were sitting ducks atop a giant, broken down Ferris wheel. _

"_This is the way I've always seen the world Cody." Rhodes continued to drink in the view ahead – catching sight of the city skyline in the greater distance. "It's always been, in my mind, you and me looking down on everything else that both mattered and didn't." Cody glanced to the hand tightening around his own, "I'm glad I could show it to you today."_

_To the words, Cody turned to find Ted now staring at him. The blonde had a smile sitting effortlessly on his face that would have been happy, had it not been plagued by an undertone of contrasting sadness. _

"_This time tomorrow, I'll wake up in a strange place, and I'll be bogged down by the weight of the world we were both born into and its own variety of inheritances. And you," His eyes dropped momentarily to the hand he held – watching as his own fingers tautened their hold. "You'll be even further away than that city skyline." _

"_But you're coming back" Cody spoke up with a swift tongue. When Ted didn't respond, the brunette leaned in closer with his desperate gaze, "You're coming back."_

_A scoff preceded him, and was quickly followed by his eyes wandering back to find Cody's worried expression staring holes back at him. "It'll be two years," He smiled – a bit more brightly than the last, "but I'll come back for you Cody." Without hesitation, Ted drew up his other arm and wrapped it around Cody – bringing the brunette towards him, and locking Rhodes in a hug that seemed to know no end. "I promise you. I'll come back, and we'll see the world like this again." His face buried into Rhode's thin shoulder, "Just promise you'll wait for me."_

"_I promise." Whispered back almost meekly._

_Salted tears welled up in DiBiase's eyes the longer he held onto Cody, as his mind rapidly went through the memories of an almost thousand year friendship filled with benign and bliss. The sting of what was now reality did not set in until he felt the creeping arm of Rhodes wrap momentarily around his back – only to let go once the Ferris wheel began moving. By the time they touched ground, both boys where back in their original seating. Cody left silently to lead the way, as Ted remained seated for a few seconds longer – drinking in the sight of his friend slowly vanishing in the blur of a faceless crowd._

* * *

><p>The trip back down memory lane was his idea. Certainly, it had been a spur of the moment thing - considering the alternative at the time would have been to tell Ted the truth; that he had planned to run away again - but standing outside the chain link fence of a season quarantined Coney Island with Ted by his side made him succumb to a gut feeling. He regretted it, and it showed. Ted had tried to make small conversation, speaking on the over priced cotton candy, the wooden roller coaster that rattled so much they feared for their lives, and the broken down Ferris Wheel. Memories he had wanted to forget, not because they were bad, but because they only served to remind him of the days he spent lying on the filth of the Pit - feeling his heart beat slow as the latest drug stirred into his blood stream. Bittersweet memories was all Ted chose to talk about, and for that, he ran. And as usual, Ted didn't follow.<p>

Sullen sapphire eyes watched as his bony fingers worked their gentle touch around a ripe tomato - prodding its firmness, and falling victim to its mesmerizing bright red color. His stomach rolled in on itself for a second time - nearly knocking him to his knees - as it acted as a sordid reminder of his current state. He had ran from Ted again, and just like all the other times he had ran from Ted, he had ran without a plan in place. Unlike before, however, he was better clothed for the lingering winter season, but to the past's similarity, he slept on the floor of the city, and stole what little sustenance he could to keep blood pumping through his veins. This was his reason for being present in the crowd of a busy, open air farmer's market, holding onto a tomato for dear life.

It wasn't as though his conscience was bothering him - he had stolen before and he could do it again - rather it was the location of his soon-to-be theft that served to stop him in his tracks. Wishfully, he wanted nothing more than to be like the people around him. Busy people who went about the entirety of the city without any care for territories or boundaries. Wishfully, he wanted to not know that he was now in Orton territory. Wishfully, he wanted to not give a damn about the consequences of showing up in a farmer's market that wasn't on Hyde street, but just so happened to be on 53rd.

Wishfully, he wanted that kind of freedom.

"It looks pretty good to me."

His startled eyes lifted suddenly to find a warm, smiling face looking back at him.

"You're debating that tomato right?" Slipped over a calm, and sweet tone. "May I?"

He stared at the small hand extended to him, before realizing what manicured fingers wanted to hold. Without further thought, he placed the tomato in the soft palm held out to him.

"Yep." Long, brunette hair shifted like silk in the wind as the woman nodded gently. "It's a good buy." She spoke whilst handing back the produce to him. "I'm Samantha by the way."

/I know./ Almost flew from his lips, but rather he forced them into a shy smile, as he took back the tomato from her hand. "I'm Cody. Do you come here often?" He asked in the softest of voices - as if fearing to be truly heard outright.

"I do." She smiled, "But this is a first for my husband." Her eyes lit up as she looked to him. "He never really liked doing these kinds of things."

"Oh." His throat dried instantly, forcing a short-lived cough from his thin lips.

Samantha looked to with worry in her eyes, before taking her knitted scarf from around her neck, and gently placing it around his. Not expecting this kind of contact made for a good excuse for his startled expression, but inside he knew another reason - a more real reason - for his tense state. Her smile was bright, and it forced her cheeks up so high that her eyes narrowed - emphasizing on the sparkle sewn into their azure lenses. Her brown hair shone in the sun, and looked soft to the touch. Her skin was pale, but it held a light kiss of tan that looked as though she had been dipped in light carmel. He knew almost everything about her, just like he did this territory, and now found himself back at the wishing well wishing, and hoping that he could find it in him to temporarily forget.

"There." She spoke up, bringing him back from where his mind had wandered to. "That should keep you warm."

He gently touch the soft fabric of the heavy wool that had been woven to make the large scarf. It felt warm against his neck, and it emitted a sweet scent of buttermilk that made him think of Ted. His expression sunk a bit as he thought on how much he regretted leaving Ted for the coldness of the city streets. He could convince himself that he was looking for freedom - and he was - but somewhere deep down, a more honest truth lay dormant. A truth wherein slept his shame, the very same shame that staved off Ted's loving touch.

A shame he didn't want to admit to.

"Thank you." He replied after taking in the kind gesture. His eyes shifted to where her hands now laid. "When's the due date?"

"A few weeks from now." She smiled sweetly, as she looked to her protruding stomach, and held it gently in her arms. "It feels like its been a long time, but I can't wait for the day to finally come."

A light-footed smile skipped across his face - living as short as a Mayfly. "Do you know what the gender is?"

"No." She shook her head lightly, as she gently caressed her stomach. "We want it to be a surprise, although we have our preferences. My husband wants a girl, but I want a boy." She glanced up at him for a moment -showcasing an expression that resembled much of what some would call 'worry'. "Other than our preferences though, he doesn't really seem all that involved in the whole thing." Heavy eye lids fell halfway over her eyes as she looked back down to her abdomen. "I wonder sometimes if we've made a mistake."

"Well, Randy's always liked kids." His jaw tensed to the words that wanted to follow - turning them into something worthy of the conversation. "I'm sure he'll make a great dad."

Samantha looked at him with with wide-eyed bewilderment. "H-How did you know my husband's name?"

His eyes shook a bit beneath their gelatinous coating, as his mind rambled on over how inescapable the truth was. As his body tensed to the cold atmosphere now hovering over them, his fingertips flashed back a signal to his brain - forcing his eyes to look at the ripe tomato being squeezed in his hands. In that instant, he gently rested the produce back down with its kind, and looked back to the woman with a determined gaze.

"We went to the same High School." He smiled politely to emphasize the truth woven into his lies just as easily as the colored threads had been woven in the scarf around his neck. "I haven't seen him since though."

"Oh." Her bright smile returned - reigning in the view of how well his words had worked. "I don't know much about his friends, but if you'd like, you could come over for dinner and catch up."

"Um-"

A knocking sound came into play - stopping him from giving his own answer. She quickly turned to the handbag hanging from her shoulder, and rummaged through it. A flat phone came to play and with a quick vertical swipe, it opened to reveal a simple message saying 'I'm here'. Instantly she looked up to see her husband walking towards her. She smiled at him, before turning back to the man she spoke to. The space he had taken was empty, with only her scarf sitting piled atop the basket of tomatoes. She picked up the scarf and looked ahead to the crowd.

"What are you looking at?" A deep voice came from over her shoulder, as muscular arms slipped around her waist to hold her close.

Her eyes lowered back to the scarf as her fingers gripped its soft fabric. "Your friend was just here."

"Friend?" He spoke as his lips pulled from the side of her neck. "What friend?"

She glanced to the light frown on his face, before looking back at the scarf. "Cody."

* * *

><p>The front gate scaled at least ten feet of open air from the already two foot high brick base. The italic lettering woven into the iron bars read <em>T<em> and _D_ – both separated by the automatic locking system ran down the middle with complex precision. The four door black sedan sat patiently waiting for gate to fully open, only to wait yet again until a pair of suit-and-tie guards had finished inspecting the vehicle with flashing wands, and metal detectors. One guard – the one waving the wand – momentarily went back into the station near the gate, hit what seemed to be an intercom button, and titled his head upwards to his partner. Both men seated in the vehicle looked up at the man standing beside the car, holding the metal detector, before slowly driving towards where his free hand gestured.

Four wheels suddenly went from gravelly asphalt to driving over well-constructed cobblestone. Through the rear-view mirror a pair of hardened blue eyes watched as the gate locked, as the guards looked on with large semi-automatics replacing their wands and detectors. Halfway through the turn around the elaborate statute of an Angel piercing a demon – which had already forced its own hand through the Angel's heart – the sedan came to another stop when a second set of guards enveloped the vehicle from all four sides. Each man dressed for a funeral, while holding readied semi-automatics. A few seconds passed in which the vehicle's occupants sat motionless inside their now unsafe vehicle, before a fifth man – much larger than the surrounding four - stepped forward. He stood motionless for a while in front of the vehicle, before walking by the driver side to talk to the man posted at the rear of the car. Through the rear-view mirror, the driver clearly saw the men glancing and motioning to the license plate, before the larger man nodded in thought and headed back to the driver's side of the sedan. Once there, the large man knocked on the tinted window with a forefront knuckle. In no time at all, the window slid down revealing the faces of one staid looking blonde, and a shorter brunette with a far more inviting expression. After inspecting the men inside the car, the large man straightened his stance whilst pulling open the door by the handle. He stationed his large frame behind the open door as the blonde got out of the car. The brunette got out on his own through the open passenger door, but soon joined the driver as all three men walked into the enormous mansion.

At the large French-style doors, the suited man opened the door by use of a facial recognition program attached to the left side. Two more men dressed in black slipped onto the porch and each held a gun in one hand, while using the free hand to open both doors simultaneously. The two Detectives headed inside only to be greeted by the muzzles of oversized handguns. The sudden sight stopped both men in their tracks at the hilt of the open door. In that time, two more men snuck up behind them and began patting both the blonde and brunette down. Satisfied, the men returned to whence they appeared, as the gun wielding cowboys in front backed off to their original posts. Only the large man remained, staring at both newcomers through the blackness of his Aviators, before removing the glasses to reveal equally imposing eyes.

"You enter enemy territory in a toy car and no weapons." He scoffed, "I don't know if they have a word for idiots like you."

"We didn't come here for a fight." The blonde spoke with a smirk on his face "We're here to speak to your old boss, Dave."

"Oh really?" Dave chuckled darkly for a moment, "Well, you've got the wrong house, Chris." He folded his large arms rigidly across his chest, "The former Head lives separately from the current. It's been a rule for this group since the beginning."

"Well, I wasn't here since the beginning." Jericho spoke whilst turning away, "My mistake."

The smaller man looked between both Chris and Dave, before deciding to follow the blonde towards the door. The sound of a cocked gun brought both men to a swift halt. To the sudden chill sprinting through him, the brunette half-turned to find the barrel of a handgun focused squarely on his temple. Chris looked at the younger man, before staring deadpan at the man behind the trigger.

"What the hell do you think you're doing Batista?" He asked through clenched teeth, "We're leaving peacefully."

"No, Chris. _You're_ leaving peacefully" He stressed. "But this guy," The gun pushed down further on the brunette's unmoving skull, "only has a one way ticket."

Jericho sighed heavily as he turned fully forward to face the leviathan, "Trust me, you'd be doing me a world of good shooting this guy in the head, and had this been a few years ago, I might have even looked the other way." His expression hardened as he glared coldly at Batista, "But, as much as it pains me to say it, this little guy is my partner. He's the first one I've had in a long time, and he's already three months in, so it'd be a pain to have to get a new one."

For a moment Batista stood unmoving, before deciding it best to let his rage go and put away his weapon. The brunette rigidly finished the rest of his turn.

"You're a Detective too?" Dave spoke slightly surprised.

"Yes I am." He sighed so as to release the remaining pent up numbness he felt just moments ago, while placing the face of his badge into the situation, "I'm Detective Evan Bourne of the 18th Precinct. And while I could arrest you for threatening a police officer, my partner speaks the truth. We've come here for a mere talk with Ted DiBiase Senior. So," He stepped closer – lessening the distance between himself and the overbearing Dave Batista. "If you'd be so kind as to get him for us. Or at the very least, point us in the right direction."

Dave stood shell-shocked at the little man's brass, before glancing to Chris in disbelief – who merely shrugged in nonchalance.

"Yeah. This is what I have to deal with." He laxly placed his hands in his pants pockets. "Anyways, since Mr. Senior isn't here, we'll be taking our leave so—"

"Hold on." A voice called from far away. All three men refocused their attention to the grand staircase, and climbed their eyes to the top to find a stern Ted DiBiase Junior looking back at them. "It's a waste of time going to my father's house."

Jericho knocked his eyebrows together at the hilt of his nose bridge – forming a frown made out of suspicion, "Why's that?" He asked ostensibly unaware of the man to which he so casually questioned.

Ted smirked lightly – cracking his hard face for a moment, before pushing away the tidbit of human that befell his expression. "He's on a business trip. And before you ask, no I don't know when he'll be back." The smirk returned, albeit more cockily, "Contrary to the tabloids, we aren't close."

Jericho scoffed, "It'd be strange if you were." Slipped out almost silently from his mouth.

Bourne glanced to his partner, before taking a daring step forward – only to be met by the brick wall known as Batista's large frame. "Mr. DiBiase" Ted flicked his eyes over to Evan, "Even if you and your father aren't close, I'm sure all funds used in this group fall solely under your control."

DiBiase cocked an eyebrow in thought – unsure of where the little brunette was going with this, "Yeah. And?" He asked callously.

"Your father consistently paid for a prostitute with money coming from your pocket."

"Yeah." His tone dried, "_And?"_ He repeated just as harshly.

"That prostitute is dead." Bourne spoke in heavy seriousness.

Ted took a moment to look over Evan's stern expression, before leaning off the exquisite railing and turning away. "Bring them up."

Dave nodded to DiBiase's retreating back. "Yes Boss." He looked back to the two men. "Follow me."

The flight of stairs wove around the bend of the wide wall, and beautifully contrasted the whiteness of the wall with the varnished auburn finish that stained its intricate features. At the top of the staircase sat a long hallway that spanned in great distance on either side. To the left sat two doors – both slightly facing each other. Curious by habit, Evan pondered on the door nearest to the staircase. It was almost as large as the front door and just as exquisite. It had also been the only one left ajar, which intrigued Bourne even further – making him think on what that room was for.

"We're going this way."

Evan looked to his right to find his partner and Dave looking back a short distance away. To Batista's hard expression, the young man complied with ease and followed both men to the last door on the right. It was also a French style door that opened grandly to a rather sparse office. A large wood desk – also varnished with a dark auburn color – sat at the very end of the room and backed up to an over-sized leather chair, which in turn faced a large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the great city skyline sitting in the distance. The view was just as captivating as it was breath-taking – and for the two Detectives it seemed to give a different outlook on life itself. That even in the slums of a dying city overrun by false hopes sat atop flame-less candles, there was still a shred of beauty. Strange enough that it would be found when looking out the window of a criminal's home.

"Do you guys want a drink?" Came from the upper left side of the room. Both Detectives looked to catch Ted DiBiase setting down three drinking glasses atop his desk and popping open a bottle of fine Scotch.

"No thanks." Chris replied coldly, stopping Ted from pouring him a glass.

DiBiase glanced over to Bourne – gesturing the same request by pointing to him with the open bottle. Evan shook his head, as Ted merely shrugged and poured himself a glass. All three men watched in silence as the young blonde resealed the bottle and placed it in a space behind his large desk. With glass in hand, Ted walked over to the front of his desk, and sat partially atop its broad surface.

"Forgive me for not offering you a seat, but this office rarely sees any visitors, so I never made any steps to investing in chairs."

"Don't sweat it." Chris spoke lightly, "We won't be staying long."

DiBiase looked to Jericho for a moment, before returning his attention to the Scotch in his hand. "So," He asked whilst watching the gentle swirl created by his spinning wrist, "what's this about a dead prostitute?"

"Her name is Rosa." Evan piped in. "She used to work for La Familia, which is where your father bought her."

"I know. DiBiase's have a habit of shopping there. I'm sure you both know about that by now." Ted spoke calmly, as he brought his hand to a halt – forcing the Scotch to remain still. "And I'm sure you're well aware that while my father bought Rosa, that doesn't make him her killer." His eyes flicked up towards the two Detectives, "Unless of course, he is the only lead you have, and this is all a desperate attempt to clear your desks of cases."

"If that were the truth," Jericho spoke behind a coy smile, "your father and us two would have been nicely seated in an interrogation room back at the precinct." His smile fell dramatically, "We've dragged ourselves out here to talk to your father about a seemingly different matter."

"Seemingly different?" Confusion straggled across Ted's face, "Isn't this about Rosa?"

"Yes." Chris spoke swiftly. "But something tells me _your_ purchase is part of the reason why she's dead and you're short ten million in your bank account."

DiBiase looked to the older Detective with slowly widening eyes, setting his Scotch down to his right side.

"We did a search on your financial footprint and found quite a large sum of money being transferred out of your account and into a secure account under the names of Epico and Primo." Evan watched Ted's confusion grow upon his face, "That account legally belonged to Rosa, and before her death, it had exactly ten million dollars in it."

Ted set his perplexed vision to the two Detectives stood ahead of him, "Wait a second" Shock buried his voice, "Are you suggesting a pay off?"

"No. We're not suggesting anything." Chris spoke dryly, "The truth speaks for itself. Your father paid off Rosa to keep her quiet. When that didn't work, he killed her."

"Are you absurd?" His arrogant tone returned with a vengeance. "What the hell would a prostitute need to be silenced for?"

"That's what we originally wanted to ask your father." Bourne slipped in forcing Ted's gaze towards him, "But we discovered the reason not too long ago, and are now here to confirm our results."

"Results?" Ted asked as Chris handed him a piece of paper. DiBiase took the paper in confusion, and opened it to even more of a surprise. "This is a fingerprint result." He spoke with the lingering taste of a question. "Why are you showing me this?"

"The results are for a test we ran on an object your father left in Vickie's care when he bought Rosa." Bourne responded calmly, "An object those results prove she handled at some point."

"Object? What the hell are you—?"

"This." DiBiase slid his eyes slightly down to find another piece of folded paper staring back at him from the end of Jericho's outstretched arm. "It's a copy of what was in a folder he left behind. A folder he had asked to be destroyed."

Tentatively, Ted took the piece of paper from Jericho. In silence, the blonde read through the contents before suddenly standing to his feet – pushing off the glass of Scotch in the same motion. The loud crashing sound of a now broken glass hitting the marble tiled floors echoed loudly through the room. The suddenness of the events startled Batista, forcing the leviathan to move closer to his Boss. In doing so, the man clearly saw what the Detectives were now privy to. An abysmal look of bereavement replaced Ted's once calm and arrogant expression. It stopped the large man dead in his tracks.

"What the hell is this?" Dave asked in silent ire.

Chris slid his blasé eyes over to the leviathan, before looking back at Ted. "It's not a fake, if that's what you're wondering." Ted flinched to the words, as his hands tightened their hold on the flimsy sheet of paper. "That's a genuine death contract."

"Death—" Dave looked back to Ted in his own bewilderment. The blood-draining expression had long since morphed into something dark and terrifying. It was the kind of aura Ted wore whenever something angered him. And having known Ted DiBiase since the blonde was a baby, Batista knew of only two things that brought the usually calm Ted to a boil. A death contract meant that Ted was angered by the worst of the two.

"You father placed a death contract out for Cody Rhodes." Jericho continued in his own air of calm, "The boy you bought from La Familia's Human Auction house."

"Rosa found that piece of paper and blackmailed your father into paying for her silence." Bourne slipped in with his own heavy tone, "But, when he could steal no more money from your accounts, and Rosa threatened to talk, he killed her." Evan reached into his jacket's breast pocket and pulled out another folded piece of paper. Due to Ted's fingers being glued to the contract, he handed it to Dave.

"What's this?" Batista asked.

"It's a warrant for the arrest of Ted DiBiase Senior." Chris turned halfway, "We'll be expecting him to be seated in our interrogation room no later than Monday." The blonde walked towards the large doors – followed closely by Bourne. "Have a nice day, Mr. DiBiase."

The varnished wood knocked their gold-plated locks together as the door was brought to a close from the outside. For the most part, Batista stood surveying the dark wood of the French style doors in a way that could have easily been idle gazing, had the situation not have called for something vastly different. Something more along the lines of legitimate fear.

"Dave" DiBiase spoke from a small distance behind The Animal's large back. Batista half-turned – forcing his eyes to crane at their fullest in order to keep in view the frightening soullessness that hovered about the young blonde. "I want you to assemble your best men, and even your worst men…I want you to call them all to attention, give them all a loaded gun, execute a state wide search for Cody, and bring him back here unharmed."

"Ted—"

"And I want it done immediately." DiBiase cut in, his attention still focused on the piece of A4 paper clutched harshly in his death grip.

Inside, a small part of The Animal wanted to disagree with DiBiase's wishes by reminding the young blonde that not only had he already ordered no one to so much as cast a shadow on Rhodes, but The March was coming. It was merely a few weeks away now, and with territories gobbled up in a soupy mix, the last thing DiBiase needed to be was unprotected. Inside, Dave wanted to voice these facts. However, as the years had rolled by, the older man had come to know that such facts would have fallen on deaf ears, because he knew extensively what his Boss was like when it came to Cody Rhodes. The blonde was a train-wreck of raw nerves that twisted the charismatic rich boy into nothing more than a primitive form of the human species – forcing him to blindly disregard his very life for the safety of that one brunette. With that knowledge, the small part within Dave died out quicker than a flame in a cold breeze, and instead the big man decided to go against the grain of his own conscience.

"Yes Boss."

* * *

><p>For the most part, people were generally nice. That's what Mark thought about the longer he watched the young brunette laugh and run around with four other strangers. A ten year road trip had shown him a side of the world he knew existed but neither wanted to or could ever venture into. It was the side of the world where born killers like him could merely look at, acknowledge, and move on from. However, for every day they spent on the road, Mark came to see this wonderfully ignorant side of the world that truly knew nothing about the ugliness standing right behind it.<p>

The people staked out here in this abandoned campsite fell into that ignorant category. Such was evident in their non-reaction to either Mark's or Phil's faces. Rather than run for the hills, these smiling, gentle folks stopped along the lonely strip of road where Mark had parked the car to rest in, and offered a killer and a wanted boy a lift the rest of the way. Even more surprising, the small group of randomly collected folks towed along the stolen Honda and paid for a full tank of gas. For a man who knew only of death, seeing life though the innocent eyes of these kind people made him hurt all over. It was the same kind of hurt that plagued him every time he had to push away from the tenderness of Phil's touch.

The younger brunette in question had become fast friends with the older crowd of five, and had spent most of the afternoon learning the wonders of nature and playing a modified game of football. Mark on the other hand had spent all day planning their escape. The niceness of people like these would have easily deviated him from his goal had this been the start of their journey. However, they were on home stretch and as kind as these folks are, if both travelers stuck around the reality of the truth would eventually come out. And these kind people would turn on them in a heartbeat.

"They're beautiful aren't they?" Mark instantly threw his gaze to his left, and found one of the more elderly camping men looking at him. "The stars." He spoke shifting his sunken eyes upwards to the night sky. "You don't see 'em like this in a big city."

Mark looked to the sky to find countless twinkling lights staring back at him. He thought on what the man had said and realized that he couldn't confirm or deny the truth of that statement. After all, he hadn't really looked up at the night sky like this. Only once…a long time ago…but it was just a glance and he couldn't recall ever seeing any beauty worth mentioning. At that time, the stars were all collected and blinding – a stark contrast to their now captivating flashes of splendor – but just like back then, Mark still found himself recapping the events of his life that led him to this point. A point where he literally become a man traveling on borrowed time, trying to make it in good with the Lord to ensure even the better parts of Hell where there was no Heaven.

"So where are the two of you headed?" The old man inquired with his wrinkled eyes looking on kindly at the side of Mark's face.

"Nowhere in particular." He lied.

"Sounds exciting." The old man replied with a small smile on his thin lips. "My family and I just decided to gather and go across America by road." His eyes looked ahead to the people playing beyond the campfire. "But we have a destination."

"Where?" Mark asked with his jade eyes still watching over Phil – drinking in the large smile on the boy's face.

"Home." Calaway looked over to the man to find him smiling back. "Sounds silly huh? Traveling all around the place only to head back to where we started."

"That's not what we're doing." Mark stated dryly as he looked back to the younger brunette – only to find him gone.

In that instant, Calaway stood to his feet – startling the older man as he did so – and immediately scanned the area with pinpoint vision. When nothing surfaced on his radar, the brunette immediately reached for the concealed _Jackal_, and readied himself to pull it out when a series of laughter came about his far left. Once his eyes settled to the direction, he found Phil and the others emerging from behind the RV where they had hidden themselves.

"You guys nearly gave me a heart attack!" The old man bellowed to his boisterous traveling buddies.

Phil looked on with a small smile on his face, but soon diverted his attention over to Mark – who stood stoically in the flickering glow of the campfire. His jades laid sullen beneath the overcast brows atop his head, as his hand slowly slipped out from the darkness of his side to reveal a hold on nothing but air. In that moment, Phil walked over to the larger brunette and immediately wrapped his arms around Mark's lower waist and back – hugging the older man tightly. Calaway stiffened to the touch in reflex, before relaxing to the soothing warmth. He looked down to find Phil staring back apologetically at him, and thought of cracking a smile to ease away the worry set on the young man's face. However, no smile came through the cement expression, and so the older man merely ran his hand over Phil's hair – further tousling the unruly strands.

Phil opened his mouth to say something, but soon closed it when his mind reminded him not to try. Instead the brunette hugged Mark tighter as a means to communicate. Something inside Calaway – something heavy and acidic – filled up the older man with a drowning sensation. His breathing felt labored – as though he had been running for years' non-stop –and his heart rate sped up forcing his body to work up a sweat from just standing there. A forceful push sent his desires over the edge and in no time at all, Mark wanted to lean forward and kiss the brunette clinging to him.

"Hey guys!" A female voice called out from the gathering of travelers now all heading towards the wooded forest. "We're going night hiking! Wanna come?"

Phil looked over his own shoulder to stare at the people all shouldering light bags for their walk. His eyes trailed back towards Mark to find the older man looking ahead in thought. In that moment, Phil locked his arms around Mark's waist – further tightening his hold on the older brunette – and buried his face in the man's board chest. To the feel of hot breath seeping through his polyester T-Shirt, heavy jade eyes looked down to find Phil nestling in the chest of their owner. With an overruling calm sensation flooding his entire being – a feeling he couldn't really explain, but knew stemmed from a guttural feeling of joy – Mark looked back at the waiting group.

"No thanks!" He shouted, "You guys go on ahead. We'll see you when you get back!"

The group smiled back and waved as they headed into the dark forest. Mark looked back to Phil and ran through the raven locks atop the young man's head. After his fingertips had stored away the sensation, Mark let out a long sigh, before pushing away the brunette – who let go with greater ease than he had back at the motel.

Phil looked up concerned, to find a staid set of emerald eyes looking back. It forced a shiver down his spine that tanked in its own iciness.

"Grab enough food, water and clothing." He spoke distantly. "We're leaving now."


	8. Sem'

The large metal doors – lathered in a thick liquid gold – opened their shiny lids to reveal the interior of an office. It was large, painted in dark earthy tones and topped off with a panoramic Muriel of the vast deserts of Texas streamlined across the upper mid-section of the back wall. No windows accompanied the space – a certain sign that anyone who dared enter this top floor bunker should have already resigned to never returning to where it was they had come from. There were two very uncomfortable leather chairs – lined with bulleted brass buttons - sitting adjacent to one another, and both faced the large, dark-stained mahogany desk ahead. To the gesture, he took a seat on the one further left and positioned himself in such a way as to locate some bit of comfort in the tiny chair. His six foot five frame disadvantaged him greatly, and soon he decided to give up on comfort. After all, he wasn't planning on being in this claustrophobic office for long. Resigned to sitting any-which-way, the brunette turned his focus to his immediate left – trailing after the blonde who had gotten up from the large chair behind the desk and was heading in that direction – and found his eyes staring intently at the double door glass cabinet mounted a few feet away. The blonde stood staring wordlessly at the large obstruction, but kept his eyes more or less focused on the small metal paint can located on the only shelf in the free-standing glassware.

"You know," The blonde spoke in his trademark gravelly tone that sounded harsh regardless, "when I was a little kid, I heard a story once. It was about a man and his dog." His large hand etched out from the cover of his satin-lined pockets, and gently brushed scarred fingertips across the fragile glass surface. "The man loved his dog, and he trained it and he kept it well. Then one day" His fingers ceased moving – landing right on the piece of glass separating the world from the metal paint can inside, "the dog bit the man. The man was shocked. How could the dog do this? After all, he had loved it and kept it well. So" A loud sigh preceded the oncoming sentence, "having no choice, the man took out his gun and shot his dog. The dog died instantly and so did he. Why?"

"He committed suicide over the dog." The brunette stated matter-of-factly.

"There was never a dog." The blonde scoffed a bit at the naïve comment, before returning his lone hand back to his side. His eyes still focused on the paint can inside – fixating entirely on the tidbits of rust, dirt and pieces of label still clinging on to the venerable metal. "It's a story about Jekyll and Hyde. The dog was the man's monster – a mere part of him. And when that part came out and hurt him, he decided to kill it. Thus killing himself."

The brunette thought for a while, before raising his eyebrows to their limits and looking on with bored eyes at the large frame of the standing blonde. "What does that story have to do with why you've called me here, Hunter?"

The blonde turned to face the seated man. A cold front hit his piercing hazel eyes, and his trademark frown seeped in to overshadow them. "The story is a prediction. A warning of what's going to happen to us all."

"I don't believe in monsters."

"Me neither." Hunter spoke beneath a sigh, "But there is one who exists, and we are the ones who have loved him and kept him well. If we don't do something quickly, he will force us to kill ourselves."

"Who the hell has that kind of power?" The brunette snapped rudely, "No one man exists above me, or you. No one man can be the death of the Black Shield."

The blonde smiled wiry before laughing out loud. "I have to respect your arrogance Orton." Randy looked on suspicious of Hunter's words, "However, the wheels have already started to turn. Our plans are hanging in the balance, and to think the fate of our world rests on the scrawny shoulders of that bitch you decided not to kill. I'd laugh if it wasn't so tragic."

"I'll kill him now" Randy growled angrily, "I would have killed him back then if the old man didn't make us that deal."

"Well," Hunter spoke as his face slipped away from its traditional hardness – looking a bit more human now, "it sounded like a solid plan that was less messy than yous. But now, it's going to blow up in our faces." Hunter sighed once more – a bit more hesitantly than previous. "NYPD have old man DiBiase strung up on murder charges. Some immigrant eye-candy named Rosa winds up eating pavement a couple nights ago – sources says he killed her because she threatened to expose the existence of the death contract to little baby Ted." He scuffed in disgust – turning his chin slightly upwards to elevate his hardened gaze. "Those same sources tell me the old man wasted his time. Baby boy Ted has seen that contract. Police have the original too, so they've seen it. If the old man turns coat and grasses up, you and I my friend will be looking at conspiracy and attempted murder in the first fucking degree." He folded his large arms across his equally robust chest – tightening the shimmering fabric around the muscles that stood all on their own. "I called you here to find out how we should go about not spending time alone with those badge-toting law enforcers. And of course, we need to find a way to avoid a confrontation of the annihilation kind with that hot-head Ted Junior. After all," He paused momentarily, "we did sign a contract to have his boy killed."

Randy hung his head for a brief moment as his thoughts weighed heavily on his mind. The Orton Clan was not known for its planning and strategist skills. In fact, the Clan was more like a gun-ho kind of group who shot and maimed. No questions asked. That kind of lifestyle worked well for the Devil's Clan, however, in a weird twist of fate, not only did Orton need to plan – he needed to plan quickly. Immediately, his pregnant wife came to mind. Her beautiful face filled with the glow all expecting mothers cite having, and peppered with the vision of a life beyond the grays and shadows of the Black Shield. In the cup of an uncomfortable chair merely present for the sake of aesthetics, Randy Orton thought about his life. Both of them. The life he kept hidden in the caverns of his mid-century mansion, and the life he had the pleasure of watching pick out fruits and vegetables at a community farmer's market. One tiny piece of A4 paper and the very existence of the kid who had lived past his own planned expiration date threatened to rip away what little bit of good Randy Orton had managed to steal from the clueless world around him – having bribed it with lies and false hopes. In a way, even the leader of the Devil's Clan knew that this was simply his own karma catching up with him. After all, he had ruined and destroyed countless lives – leaving not even the memory of what once was. His Clan had been suffering the results of his heartlessness, and so when Ted DiBiase Senior came along with an offer to kill what Randy had back then believed to be the sole cause for his misery, the cruel brunette took the offer without a second thought. Seated now in the presence of Hunter Helmsey-McMahon and forced at damn near gun point to conjure up a route of escape, Orton could do nothing more than wish he had seen this sooner. Wished he had known that attempting to vanish Cody Rhodes would bring him to the point where just one wrong move could damn well lead to war. A war that even the reigning king of war knew he would lose.

"I can have my guys take care of it." He spoke more to convince himself at first – working up the nerve to convince Hunter, "Clean and simple." His harsh glare trailed back to the stoic blonde, "The moment he leaves the pig sty, _bang!_ One bullet, and a clean kill."

"Bang?" Hunter chuckled darkly, "This isn't some wild west cartoon Randy. We need something much cleaner than your cowboys." His frown returned with a vengeance. "We need something untraceable. Another death contract should be built."

"Yeah." Randy scoffed cockily, "Let's leave a paper trail. It's not like we're in hot water because of it."

Hunter smirked to the sarcasm "I'm proposing a verbal contract. Just a simple command of kill spoken over a secure line."

Intrigue sat kingly on Orton's expression as he unconsciously leaned back into the angled cup of the hard chair – regretting it the moment a piece of metal framing pierced the small slip of space separating his lower vertebrae. Immediately, he jumped forward – away from the pain. "And this kill command is spoken to who?"

"Wolf." Hunter spoke without hesitation. His eyes watched as Randy's face began to change into something terrifying – speaking up just at the right moment to freeze the deadly expression, "He's a neutral and he's the only assassin left in this world who we know will get the job done."

"And he's an ex-cop with a real chip on his shoulder." Randy spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not paying a pig to kill a pig."

"He wasn't just some ex-cop Randy. He disguised himself for years and hid among us in plain sight. We only found out when he revealed himself to us, and by then, we couldn't even retaliate." Hunter's tone grew more serious, "He's the best we've got right now, and he's got no strings that will ever lead back to us. He's a killer who hates our kind. Trust me, for a chance to kill one of us, Wolf will gladly take this job."

Randy craved a deep frown of thought upon his forehead as he worked his mental teeth through the crust of sugar-coating in an effort to find the core bullshit before it was too late. "And when he finishes the job, he'll point his gun at us."

"His behavior precedes him, but Wolf has no interest in killing me or you." The older man spoke with assertion.

"What makes you so sure?"

The blonde threw a brash smirk across his lower face – glancing to the metal can locked behind glass bars. "He's got revenge on his mind. Petty crime lords like us don't even register on his radar." Hazel eyes slipped back towards the seated brunette. "Wolf will get this job done. It'll be clean and fast. And when it's done, we can focus on that other loose end."

Randy's jaw tensed for a moment as his eyes tried to pull away from the past. "_That_" He spat mundanely, "I'll personally see to myself."

Hunter chuckled lightly as he stuck both hands into his hidden pockets. "I can have Wolf take care of that too. His appetite knows no bounds after all."

"Just have him find Cody, and let me be the one who takes his head." Slid viciously off a venomous tongue. "I'll throw his balls back to Ted."

"Don't." Hunter spoke sharply, "Unless there's profit in it, do not pursue war. Otherwise, neither side will stand a chance of winning." He turned entirely to face the glass cabinet. "According to the grapevine, New York's finest are locked up in a story of crime lord trying to cut out what he considers to be a parasite. We'll work with that story and ensure ourselves a clean break."

Randy thought on the idea, found he didn't like it, but discovered that he had no other options to state otherwise. All he had was a nod of agreement to which he presented to a distracted Hunter.

"What about our signatures? They're on that contract."

Hunter sighed purposefully – dragging his large shoulder down beneath the fabric of his suit as he unfolded his arms away from his chest. "Wolf's got his ways. I can assure you we don't have to worry about a single thing."

Orton sat in silence long before rising to his feet. Halfway back to the guarded elevator doors, he stopped and looked back to Hunter – now finding the man gently touching the pane of glass. "How are you so sure about Wolf? He betrayed his kind and us. How can you trust him with this?"

"I don't trust him at all Randy." Hunter spoke with his attention still focused on the jailed paint can. "But I know that what he did was basic human emotion, because real betrayal doesn't have a winner."

The words held no meaning to Randy, however the brunette found it within himself to understand that Hunter was done explaining his beliefs. And as far as prying went, Orton found he had lost his very will to do so. Seeing Rhodes wander blithely about his territory like a haunting spirit had left Randy in a bad mood. In that moment the brunette thought, beneath his watching eyes, about telling Hunter about Cody's blatant act of nonchalance and provocation. However, watching the older man gaze unendingly at the paint can house behind expensive glass and metal hinges, Orton convinced himself that the time for that was either not right or – if Wolf succeeded – it would never be there. With that, he set up once more to leave, only to stop once again at the hilt of the large gold doors.

"If I ever come back here again," He spoke with gray blue eyes piercing the now exposed interior of the elevator "I'd like to hear the story behind that paint can."

The older man scoffed loudly enough to be heard from a distance. He said nothing more, and did nothing more save listen to the silent close of the elevator doors. Immediately following the departure of Randy Orton, the leader of the McMahon Clan turned his gaze towards the Muriel attached to the width of the back wall. His gaze drank in the bright honey gold colors of the desert skillfully separated from the rich gilded colors that stained the patches of blue representing the intense desert sky. The Muriel symbolized a frozen moment in time – a moment when all emotions are drawn to their absolute extremes and halted just as they were about to be released. Oddly, the painting resembled Hunter. A man trapped in his own scathingly raw emotions that could neither heal nor pass on. Instantly, the blonde drew in a deep breath and tasted upon his nostrils the scent of clean, open air and crisp freedom. It was just a borrowed image and an imagined recollection, nevertheless it felt real enough to Hunter to be believed in. Having skipped through the broken pieces of what felt like someone else's memory, light hazel eyes drifted back to the cold metal of the old paint can. Once again, he lightly touched the exterior glass wall – cupping at a distance the left frame of the can as he did.

"Just a little while longer." He spoke in a drowned whisper, "I'll take you home soon enough."

* * *

><p>Clambering over one another, the sharp-toothed sea birds squawked about in mismatched unison as they tried in vain to break through the very walls of the police headquarters. The building was more or less built to be identical to the locations speckled across the city, however the builder defaulted mid-way to the once rejected idea of putting together a place that seemed more like a multilevel apartment than a police station. In the end, the powers that be shook hands on an unspoken deal and left the headquarters looking like mere wall paper to the city around. No one complained much – save the tech guys locked away in the basement built to reflect the setting of paranormal activities, and the first floor break room with its indecisive heating system – and the building was soon duly noted as the people inside wearing badges did their job, and did it well. For Detectives Chris Jericho and Evan Bourne, the job was done so immaculately that the squawking flock threatened to rip apart the building brick by brick in an effort to so much as glimpse with their prying lenses the city's most prominent figure to step through the now closed front doors.<p>

"Damn those fuckers are worse than street pigeons after the last grain!" Jericho spoke in rapid ire as he burst through the doors leading to the interrogation room. It was a classic tactic of distraction - a method used to momentarily remove the guard from a suspect, putting him off his feet for even the slightest of moments and then picking away at the leftover scab until eventually the fault line tore through the cracked shell and he spilled like yolk from a broken egg.

The seated blonde sat motionless in the iron chair with his body slightly distanced from the almost fluid metal table. His aged skin had been visibly yet slightly tanned by the Caribbean sun, and it reflected a bit off the shiny gold dragon scales littering his customized shirt. The rest of the suit dressed down his eccentricity with it plainer tones, and his styled chestnut hair (with sideburns of grey) capped off the rest of the ensemble with a touch of hinting class. The man sitting at the other end of the integration table looked nothing more than the average multi-millionaire. Even as the cuffs of justice had clamped down angrily on his twisted wrists – scuffing the surface of his gold Rolex watch - and as the charges of murder and other atrocities were read along with the Miranda rights, the older man had merely flicked his neck to put back in place the escaping strand of hair that had momentarily fallen out of its gelled space in all the commotion. The only sign of distress on the older man's face was the slightly tipped pair of thousand dollar glasses that sat ajar on the bridge of his nose. With hands still cuffed, he brought to the surface a lone index finger and merely shoved back the disobedient pair of glasses into their rightful place. Just as calmly, he returned his hands back to the cup of his lap, placing them in a relaxed position that seemed to not notice the silver handcuffs that bound them together.

"Sorry about having to force you through that violent sea of people, Ted" Detective Jericho spoke as he took a seat on the abandoned chair facing the older man, "but all our security clearance is at the front."

DiBiase smiled politely, "I appreciate the concern Detective, but you best be getting on with stating what you've got to state before I miss my dinner reservations."

Chris chuckled lightly to the air of arrogance oozing from DiBiase Senior, and offered up his own brand of superciliousness by purposefully leaning back into the board-stiff frame of the metal chair. "Alright. Since you're in such a rush, why don't you just go ahead and confess to killing Rosa Mendez, and maybe I'll talk the court into letting you have that dinner."

"I didn't kill anybody."

"But you killed Rosa."

Ted sighed loudly as he too eased back into the bracket of the chair. "Rosa was a sweet, and beautiful young woman. I never even knew of her passing until you and your team crowded me at the airport waving white papers and fancy wristbands." To the term, DiBiase slightly raised his hands to showcase the handcuffs – placing them leisurely back onto his lap only after he was certain the Detective had gotten a good look. "I liked Rosa and appreciated her professionalism and services. It's a shame she's gone."

A steady grin stayed to Chris' hardened expression as he drank in the faux sincerity streamlining the older man's face. "You never knew of her passing?" He spoke sardonically, "That's a bag of bull DiBiase. You're not the kind to just waste money on someone only to have them go MIA without warning."

Immediately, and without caveat, the Detective leaned forward presenting the folder he had kept hovering above the concrete floor. The paper folder hit the table top hard, forcing it to spill its contents of developed crime scene photographs. An array of grotesque and graphic pictures sprawled across the table sitting squarely under the exposed light bulb hanging above. Jericho leaned back into his chair – allowing some of the darkness shrouded behind him to envelope pieces of his body.

"You're the kind to hunt that person down and flush high octane gasoline down their throat with a rusty lead pipe." He smirked, "And just to remind everyone exactly what species of vicious you are, you toss that barely alive person out a twentieth floor window and leave them on the cold street for all to see."

DiBiase had flinched to the slapping sound of the folder hitting the metal table, however his expression had remained undamaged despite his eyes shifting through the various photographs, and in spite of the Detective's icy words. After he was done overlooking the pictures, the older man looked back at the Detective – nothing save utter boredom hinged with annoyance sitting kingly on his face.

"I refuse to let these images cloud the vision of the Rosa I knew." Ted spoke with an air of haughtiness, "You can show me all the pictures you want Detective, but all you'll be doing is wasting your time. I didn't kill Rosa, and based on the fact that I'm here on nothing more than circumstance, I'd like to request my lawyer."

Once more Chris looked on silently with a stiff grin placed on his face. It looked to be something practiced for times like these – times when scum of the earth lawyer up behind the very Miranda rights the law requests be read at the time of arrest. For times like this, Chris merely smiled away in discomfort, and thought over his next set of moves. Inside, a raging desire to beat – at the very least – some respect for the authority of the law and the dead girl named Rosa into this cocky lump of flesh rapidly flashed through Jericho in an effort to consume his very consciousness. Having met and conquered this feeling before, the Detective had no trouble warding it off by simply closing his eyes and clearing his mind with a long sigh. When his eyes returned to Ted, Chris found himself in an eerie calm state of mind and was only then able to put away the pictures without jumping across the metal surface and removing from the world a man like Ted DiBiase Senior.

"You know," Chris spoke in a near silent tone as he collected the photographs and meticulously evened them up to be placed back into the folder, "a wise man once told me that we are all martyrs by choice, and slaves to circumstance." He looked to Ted as he pushed aside the folder – leaving it to perch precariously on the edge of the table. "I can't seem to shake this feeling that you're more the latter. Circumstances just seem to be what makes you Ted, and" The blonde paused for a brief moment, "for you the circumstance" He stressed, "started with an idea."

DiBiase cracked a fleeting expression of intrigue that quickly vanished into the nothingness that was his impassive face. His words however had yet to prefect the delicate art. "And what would that be?" He asked as close to apathetic as he possibly could.

"Let me give you a scenario." Jericho leaned forward – hands clasped atop the table's metal surface. "A couple months ago Ted DiBiase Junior exits his extraordinary mansion and drives like a bat out of hell to La Familia. You think nothing of it because, hey, the DiBiase's are famous for buying goods from this particular location. However, you skip a breath when you set eyes on the man your son has bought home. A kid named Cody Rhodes – the only Rhodes left in this entire state. Something you may or may not have seen to." Ted frowned slightly, however he remained silent, allowing the Detective to continue undisturbed. "Anyways, your history with Rhodes is well documented. You even went on record once and quoted the family to be nothing more than 'blood-sucking new money who would sell their own asses for a little taste of the high life'. So, naturally you resent Cody and everything he stands for. A kid like Cody dirtied your family name, and in your circles, it branded your son as a sex slave addicted homosexual. Naturally you plead your case, but your hatred of course falls on deaf ears because as much as you try to cover it, your son despises you and you both live separate lives. However," He sits on the word for a moment, before continuing once DiBiase's full attention had been verified, "you're a father before you're a crime kingpin, so of course you try your utmost best to bury the very existence of Cody Rhodes being your son's new sex slave. The Black Shield doesn't buy your stories, so you desperately turn to your son and beg him to get rid of that, and I'm quoting you here, 'sorry piece of shit' or else you'd have someone come in and 'remove the insect'. This was probably the point at which Ted cut you off entirely. I imagine he told you never to come near Cody or else." A light chuckle escaped Chris' lips as he delighted briefly at the older man's expression melting away to a look best described as angry embarrassment. "Well, no one threatens the great Ted DiBiase Senior. You're the million dollar man. The tyrant who rules with the silver dollar, and you prove that by getting together a band of equally merry men and sign a piece of paper that ensures Cody Rhodes gone. Quick, clean, and untraced back to you."

To the notion, Ted's expression fell hard on the rocky shores of disbelief and bewilderment. "What are you—?" The movement of a paper shifting towards him stopped the old man's words dead in their tracks. His eyes looked through the prescribed lenses of his glasses, allowing him to see with clarity the photograph of a long forgotten death contract. Immediately, he looked back to the Detective – eyes now wide in shock. "Where the hell did you get this? How did you get this?" He barked commandingly.

Jericho stared unflinchingly at the older man as he withdrew into the sparse comfort of his metal chair, "It was one of the many skeletons in your vast closet, Ted." He continued in a dry tone, "My sources have already confirmed that on the day you bought Rosa Mendez, you left behind a certain envelope. And inside that envelope was the death contract all penned up for Cody Rhodes." A thin smile spread across his face, "Your signature proves attempted murder, or at the very least conspiracy to commit murder provided you give further detail about the second and third signatures sitting at the base of this contract."

DiBiase visibly clenched his jaw as he swallowed back whatever reaction had been brewing the moment his eyes beheld the damning photograph.

To the silence, Detective Jericho continued unperturbed. "Even if you sit there silent about this contract and Rosa's murder, I can assure you that your son will be a lot more forthcoming since he's seen the contract and was more than happy to give you up."

The older man quickly shifted towards the table – placing his cuffed hands onto its surface with a frightening force that echoed loudly through the poorly lit room. "Did you show my boy this paper?" He barked from close range. Jericho remained silent, further aggravating the older man. "Do you know what you've done by showing him that? Do you have any idea – even the slightest inkling – as to what hell you've now released?"

"Nope." Chris spoke in nonchalance. "But, I have a feeling I'll find out eventually, and it won't bode at all well for your good health."

The wild look in Ted's eyes slowly slipped away as he drifted back lightly into the cup of his seat. Soon his hands returned to his lap, and a soft sigh cut through the maniac tension still clinging to the space separating both men. "You gold badged fools don't understand the intricacies of The Black Shield."

"I didn't detain you to find that out." The Detective outstretched his arm and pulled the distanced folder to the center of the table. In one swift movement, he plucked a picture of Rosa's body as it had laid atop the icy asphalt stories down from an abandoned building. The soullessness in her eyes stared back at Ted as the picture stopped ahead of him. "I want to find out why you killed this girl. Was it blackmail, hmm?" He pried relentless, "Did she find that contract and threaten you with it? Did you pay her only for her to come around and tell you she was lying? That no matter what, she was going to tell your son that you tried to have Cody killed?"

For a moment, the words seemed to infect the older man. However, he soon calmed himself through steady breathing and eventually ran his eyes over the photograph. He scoffed heavily as his head slowly shook from left to right. "I'll say again Detective. I did not kill Rosa." Aged blue eyes littered with crows feet stared back at the staid Detective. "And now that I know my son has seen that contract, I hope you cherish the world as it is now." He smiled lightly – almost frail on closer inspection, "Because I won't be able to."

Jericho felt his words form inside the depths of his throat – going so far as to pre-tune his larynx – only to have the sound of the door opening and the flood of alien light force them back down into the acid of his stomach. Immediately Chris frowned at the sight of Detective Bourne, only to find the solemn man trailed by a sharply dressed older man – head covered in a sheet of well-groomed white hair, and suit-and-tie ensemble resembling that which is worn by someone running for Presidency. To the sight of the older man, Chris grumbled angrily to himself, before standing to his feet.

"This interrogation is over Detective." The older man spoke briskly and gruffly as he all but ran to the side of Ted DiBiase – taking care to rest his briefcase atop Rosa's picture. "My client is pleading innocent and will say nothing more."

Chris heaved a deep breath as he quietly packed together the photographs. "I needed a smoke anyways." He stood with folder in hand and looked on angrily at the white-haired lawyer. "I'll leave after you get your briefcase off that picture."

The older man looked down and swiftly took his briefcase off the table's surface. The Detective leaned forward and pointedly grabbed the picture away – having left the lawyer with a few seconds to drink in the image – leaving the room with the information he had walked in with. On the way out, Evan looked to his partner to find nothing short of annoyance written over his face.

"If I weren't your partner," The smaller man started in a low breath, "I'd say we were working separately on this case hearing you talk about information you failed to share with me."

Chris stopped in the doorway, and took the time to stare deadpan on the brunette. "That's because I don't consider you my partner." He leaned in closer to the young brunette, "So stop bitching about not getting information, and just try finding your own."

The older man exited the room leaving Bourne to close the door on the conversing lawyer and client.

* * *

><p>"Good afternoon all you viewers watching here in Saint Louis. Boy, have we got a story for you this fine day."<p>

_Click_

"One of the most _con-tro-versial_ stories to hit National television in over a decade"

_Click_

"Just moments into the da,y our correspondents here in New York City spotted officers taking a handcuffed former CEO of Global Agency Banks into police custody"

_Click_

"It is indeed the most shocking thing we have ever witnessed here in the Big Apple"

_Click_

"That's right folks. Ted DiBiase Senior has just been arrested. The charge? Murder in the first degree."

With a hard press of the red button, a creeping blackness befell the now black screened TV, removing from his field of vision the invasion of a crack in an otherwise perfect plan. A heavy sigh escaped a propped up Mark Calaway as he thought upon the fact that the world was now set on course for a brutal evolution. Ted Senior represented a time in Mark where the Black Shield held something frighteningly similar to honor, before politics stepped in a ruined it. Seeing the old man getting arrested for something as common as the flu in the Black Shield meant that loyalty and honor no longer existed in the organized crime world –now proven given the fact that such a prominent figure in the Black Shield had just been publicly arrested by the police.

Having knowledge of this only put Mark in a more uneasy state as he thought upon the person he had rather forcibly put his trust into to get him and Phil as far away from their past as possible. At the beginning of their journey, Calaway kept his trust solely Phil who he vowed to protect, however having a wanted status limited what Mark could do, and eventually saw the older brunette standing face to face with a man he would rather not have known to exist. Such a fated meeting led to the stage on which Mark and his counterpart now stood on, waiting patiently for their next move – a position Mark consistently found himself despising despite having convinced himself on countless occasions that it was for the greater good.

A slight headache began to build in the frontal lobe of Mark's skull the longer he weighed upon Ted's current circumstance and how much it affected his current mindset. Bringing his large hand to the start of his nose-bridge, and massaging that area with tense precision, momentarily pushed aside Mark's discomfort. After a long sigh, the older man instinctively looked down and found a pair of green eyes boring holes into his own gaze. A normally cheerful face stared back with cold placidity not becoming of the young man. The sight irked on Mark's nerves the longer he stared at the raven-haired man, as he knew in that instant that Phil also knew of what the news meant – and also what it spelled for their situation.

Reading such a cold undertone put in Calaway a gut-wrenching pain. Words clambered up the barrels of his throat, but were all instantly put down having sounded empty to himself. Looking at the young man, Mark felt the desperate urge to return to Phil that look of utter bliss and benign, and deep down he knew petty words could not accomplish that. Having this knowledge put Mark into action as he quickly took a set of stiff fingers and ran them once through the soft brunette locks tousled atop the younger man's head. The calming action barely brought a flicker of life back to Phil's cold expression – prompting Calaway to tuck tail and rely on the words he had once dismissed.

"I've already said this before Phil." He started in a low and husky voice, "Don't ever look at me with doubt in your eyes." His eyes sharpened with a driven sense of significance locked in their emerald stricken orbs. "I promised you your safety, and I intend to fulfill that promise no matter what."

The younger man responded by casting his gaze downward – focusing entirely on his fingers as they fiddled with the belt loop on Calaway's jeans. In the same breath, he lounged forward from the already awkward angle, clumsily wrapping both slender arms around Mark's lower waist – burying his face in Mark's muscular side. The nod of understanding came much later, and was over just as briefly as it had arrived.

Satisfied, the older man allowed himself to freefall onto the head board resting behind him. A wave of comfort hit him – just as quickly as the stiffness in his muscles did. In no time at all, a position meant to be comfortable took a turn for everything antonymous to the very word. Years of trauma to his skeletal muscles caused nothing but sheer agony with every bit of movement he made. Walking hurt. Running hurt more. Breathing was the very worst. With the weight of the brunette planted firmly on his lower abdomen, Mark's initial response was merely an extension of the immense pain his body was registering. However, the warmth emitting from Phil's very breaths somehow soothed the raging fire, and in no time at all, the older man found himself able to bite against the pain. By convincing his brain to focus on the spasms of numbness travelling through his legs - a direct result of having no cartilage and badly damaged ligaments, coupled viciously with having sat motionless on a bed for over eight hours – Mark was able to reroute his feeling of pain, and as such, take in the little pleasure of being able to enjoy the human warmth resting on him.

Mark looked over at the night stand seated beside him. Resting on top of the old wood under a disheveled trench coat sat the _Jackal _– hiding in respect for the boy who feared it. In this moment, Calaway could not help but ponder upon how much ten years had changed Phil. At age ten, the kid held nothing but fear and contempt for the older man. Fast forward to this current situation, that very same kid lay clinging on for dear life to that very same older man. However, in none of this had Phil's attitude towards the large handgun changed. Burned into Mark's mind was the look of utter fear and horror slashed across a normally smiling and idyllic expression. With that, Calaway carefully covered the tiny sliver of the _Jackal_ that had somehow escaped the vast blackness of the large trench coat. In doing so, Calaway thought more upon his and Phil's situation. The end was near, but someone was always there to pull the executioner's cloth over their eyes causing them to wander off the beaten path yet again. As Mark now stared at the solemn kid, he renewed his vow with a slight addition to never again walk blind. To always keep one step ahead of the world – lest it swallow him whole.

To the idea, Mark reached into his free pocket and pulled out a pair of silver quarters. They had been wrapped poorly in a strip of yellowing lined paper, but Mark didn't penny too much their appearance. He simply clutched the pieces of silver within their paper wrapping and prepared to derail the numbness in his legs by setting up to stand to his feet. Phil's cobra clutch grounded him to the mattress.

The older man glared at the clingy man. However, his fearsome demeanor dried quickly the longer he looked at Phil. From this angle, the older man saw the slim strip of slightly tanned neck tucked down the back of an oversized navy blue T-Shirt. With an alignment of rounded bones bracing the thin skin, Phil's neck looked entirely easy to break. As he looked, Mark thought on his options as balls of spit formed in his mouth and fell jaggedly down his throat. With ease, the older man knew he could grab hold of the mess of black locks sat atop the younger man's head, yank the handful all the way back, and pry the younger man off. However, knowing the pain that would bring to Phil shortened the life-span of the idea - killing it entirely in just a few seconds.

Another possibility arose from the ashes. Slip down the length of the headboard and lay down beside the brunette.

Immediately as he thought of it, Mark tried inexorably to put it out of his mind. The very last thing he wanted would be to lay beside someone like Phil. The feeling of comfort and warmth emitted from the younger man would either be tainted by Mark's inability to do the same, or creep up and infect Mark's hardened resolve to keep his own desires out and focus on the goal ahead. With every freedom comes a sacrifice, and as such Calaway knew that his sacrifice would lead to Phil's freedom.

Cornered, the older man settled on gently trying to pry Phil's vice grip off his body. In response, the younger man tightened his hold and was now looking up in desperation at Mark.

Annoyance began to seep through Mark's eyes – staining his hard expression. "What do you want?" He all but barked at the kid, knowing all too well exactly what Phil wanted.

The brunette continued to tighten his hold on Calaway before a set of fingers worked their way up the side of the older man's black T-Shirt. Mark remained steadfast in spite of having a set of fingers lightly tread their way over sore muscles. Rather than ripping away from the touch, Mark allowed himself to be tested by a curious Phil. To Calaway's compliance, Phil continued to work his way up Mark's shirt. His thin fingers began to walk over the bumps of Mark's six pack, and the protruding wounds that littered them – kneading each one with a strong tenderness – before the shirt began to pull away to expose the badly scarred and lightly tanned flesh on the older man's stomach. Phil's eyes worked over the naked flesh, before coming back to catch an intense look in Mark's usually distant gaze. Seizing the moment of equilibrium malfunction, Phil pushed himself up to set his own wanting gaze on the same level as Mark's ravenous one, and leaned forward instantly. Without a single second of hesitation, the younger man's lips were placed squarely on the slightly chapped lips belonging to Mark Calaway.

As soon as it happened, Phil began to peel away to end it. Years of trying had taught him that such rare moments should be given no more than half a minute lest Mark become enraged and pull out the restraints. However, be it the terrifying news that made him question an already unstable loyalty so close to the March, or be it a case of simply being worn down by stress, age and limited sleep, Mark quickly grabbed hold of Phil's very skull and forced the younger man into lengthening the kiss. To the surprise twist, Phil lost his footing, and for that Calaway picked up the slack by reversing roles. He led now and Phil did everything in his power to follow.

The new kiss started off on a rough stretch that seemed to be something lonely and arid. However, in a few moments it escalated to a fiery cocktail of desire and greed. A hunger lurked out from the shadows to join the fray the moment Mark's tongue came into play. The tasting muscle lurched forward – darting between Phil's lips as if performing a ritualistic handshake. Phil felt himself losing strength just from the aggression, but only completely lost himself once Mark turned up the intensity of the lengthy kiss. The younger man grabbed on weakly to Mark's broad shoulders as the older man held on with equal force. Breathing became an honest struggle the longer Mark tugged and pulled and tasted. Nonetheless, the older man did not render himself to a halt. Rather, he flashed a pair of possessed eyes to Phil, while at the same time pushing the younger man down onto the bed with a hand now working on removing a button from its designated hole. The younger man instinctively grabbed hold of the large arm invading his nether regions, only to have Mark yank it away and trap it with the other above his head. In all this, Mark had yet to come up for air, but as soon as his hand grabbed hold of Phil's now erect manhood, the violent kiss subsided to be quickly replaced by a series of bites into his thin neck. Phil could not immediately pinpoint where his pleasure now came from – Mark's working hand, or the constant sucking and biting and licking that streamlined his neck, chest and stomach – but in the fast few seconds that swam by, the younger man found himself unable to think. With nowhere left to go, Phil relieved himself in a burst of energy that cumulated to spasms of bodily shakes until eventually he stopped entirely.

For a while, the small room filled with nothing save the sounds of heavy breathing and temporary gasps. Phil took a moment to register the pain in his wrists, and looked to the source in Mark. His eyes still held a haze of relief and underlining desire for more. At first, Mark's jades seemed to reflect the same, but soon they blackened with a sudden slap of realization. In a frantic disbelief, Mark set widened jade eyes over the body lying beneath him. At some point, the shirt had been mostly removed; the thin arms had been restrained at the wrists above a messy head; slightly tanned skin had been ravaged with deep kiss marks and a barrage of bite marks; the pants had been nearly ripped off along with the underwear, and atop them both stood a partially erect penis still wet with cum.

Without prior warning, Mark sat up in his shock, and moved away from the bed entirely. Phil weakly sat up and looked at the older man with a sheepish and tender gaze. Calaway frowned in anger at the brunette, before gritting his teeth to his own frustrations. He was hard, and it showed. Encapsulated in that knowledge, Calaway all but fled to the tiny bathroom at the corner of the room – slamming the door shut behind him. Once inside the constricting space, Mark removed his pants – dropping them to his knees – and pulled out the only muscle not stiff from pain. Disgusted, he tried to simply stare it back down, but his manhood merely stared back and laughed mockingly at the fruitless effort. Bracing himself with one hand, Mark began to pleasure himself. With each stroke his mind thought back to the few seconds past. The taste of Phil's lips, and skin. Phil's heavy breathing. Phil's light gasps. The feel of Phil's own erection and the warm fluid that spilled onto his very hand at the climax. Heat and a sense of being on fire soon consumed Mark's entire body the longer he stood trying to drown out the memory of Phil's body from his mind. A flash went off in his mind as he immediately played over Phil's final moments of succumbing to the immense pleasure. The freeze frame of the young brunette's face sent Calaway climaxing at a monstrous level. After the last flow of held-back energy passed through him, Mark hastily grabbed strips of tissue and hastily began to wipe away all traces of the act. His mind thought upon different things in that moment. The way the world had now shifted with Ted DiBiase's arrest. The obese man who had sat at the front office drinking his can of beer. A plan for getting past Saint Louis. Anything and everything flooded Mark's mind the longer he spent cleaning.

Once sanity returned, the older man turned on the old tap and washed away all remaining traces of the act he had just committed. He took a moment to wash away the intentions that masked his face, and looked up at the mirror nailed to the wall ahead. A cold reflection stared back peeking out from beneath the openings of his former expression. Shaky streams of water caught the tails of his age and wandered down drunkenly on his face. The muscles that hurt due to his past began to surface with their non-stop pain. Now they attacked his organs – and he could feel it. His kidneys. Liver. Heart. Lungs. Every part of him felt as though he was locked in the death grip of a ferocious snake. Immediately, Mark washed his face again – determined to deter the pain and get rid of all traces of who he was just a few minutes ago.

Once more the older man looked up. Once more he saw the heavy mask still clouding the expression he wanted underneath. Frustrated, Mark turned off the running water, and in the same motion, drove a hard right through the small mirror. The glass cracked at the impact site before shattering to nothing shortly after.


	9. Vosen'

_A troublesome breeze peeled off from its' original formation and inquisitively rode an illegal current directed to an array of staggeringly tall, concrete buildings. Snaking through the tight maze of the city skyline, the mischievous bit of air craved away at the rough and sharp edges of the skyscrapers until they molded into something a little gentler to the touch. Iced glass windows peeled back their frosty eyelids as the stray warm air caressed tenderly over their flat surfaces. People walked atop their rooftops to offer themselves a panoramic view of their plot of world from behind the tidbit of mist that rose up from the warm bowels of their coffee and cocoa filled mugs. From that height, the handful of humans standing tall were able to feel the smooth and warm fingertips of a rogue wind kiss the backs of their exposed necks not properly covered by their wooly scarves; for some, the breeze even gently ran loving fingers through a few strands of the hair sticking out from beneath the head warmers and snow hats. Having broken smiles and scowls onto the faces of a majority of the public standing atop their roof terraces, or on their top floor balconies, the childish wind teeter-tottered from one extreme to another. Over the crowded landmass of concrete and people, the breeze would stay closer to the clouds, but when it hit a span of alien grasslands, the inquisitive wind could not help but defy the very science that kept it alive. Taking nothing short of a kamikaze nosedive, the warm wind rocketed to the mid-section of the forestry – bumping into the rougher edges of pine bark and even stirring alive a few lighter pieces of snow that had fallen overnight. Feeling the creeping cold grab hold of its tail, the streaming breeze quickly realized its growing dilemma, and so, it turned nose and attempted to climb back up to the clouds. Halfway there, the wind struck a deathly situation – a frozen lake spanning almost a mile wide. The cryogenic water grabbed hold of the stray warmth that attempted to flee back to the clouds up above, and in one corkscrew twist, the cold had completely infected the once roguish warm wind – dispelling all that had made it what it once was. In a few short moments, the now icy wind trudged heavily across the vast lake and propelled itself slightly upwards using its warmer core. The chameleon wind tried hard to master what it now had in its possession, but the icy particles layering around its atmosphere prevented it from getting anything more than a few inches off the ground. Determined not to give in, the breeze took a sharp turn hoping to catch a ride on another straying warm current. However, a large silver grate vacuumed it out of sight and in no time at all the cold wind was surrounded by maddening sounds of machinery and churning oil. Moving parts knocked it about on its journey inward – and without even so much as a cry, the silent air passed through into a locked cabin, and forcibly deposited its cold skin to the air about. In less than a second, the breeze was gone. _

"_Turn up the heat Virgil. It's getting cold back here."_

_From behind a half closed dark screen, a bald-headed gentleman replied, "Certainly Sir" as he fiddled with the wood craved knobs of the dashboard – returning his hands to the steering wheel once optimum temperature had been reached. "Better Sir?" He asked politely._

"_Yes. Much." The golden-haired blonde leaned back into the plush leather seat, and adjusted his suit as he did. "Now," He spoke with a certain air of cold authority, "I want you to explain what happened at school today Theodore."_

_The little boy sitting ahead continued to eye the carpeted floor beneath his feet. His upper lip pulsated with pain, and the spot above his left eye also throbbed agonizingly – however, the chestnut blonde remained tight-lipped to both the hurt and the situation. _

"_Theodore." Repeated in a stern voice. The little boy knew in his gut that he had to speak. When the older man called him by his full name, it was deathly important that he answer quickly. Nonetheless, the boy disregarded his own knowledge and instead closed himself further. The older man sighed loudly as he looked to the ceiling for a moment. "You're a boy Ted. Boys always get into fights." He looked back at Ted – who still had his head bowed and eyes glued to the floor. "However, what separates a boy from a man is the reason why he fights. So," He leaned forward to lessen the distance, "why did you fight those kids?"_

_Ted remained tight-lipped, however soon his throbbing head wound had spread to the entirety of his forehead. Threatened with a wide-spread pain, Ted slowly lifted his head to reveal his beaten in face. The head wound was still as ghastly as the first time the older man had laid eyes on it, and the upper lip tear looked to have doubled in size and redness in the same time frame. The eye below the head wound had now almost completely swollen shut – leaving now only a sliver of baby blue color peeking from behind its blackish-purplish discoloration. The right side had not been spared any, although it was a bit less damaged than its neighbor. A bruise highlighted the upper right jawline, while the ear lobe had been cut by a passing graze. Despite the gallery of grotesque battle scars, the older man felt a sickening pride deep down in keeping with the knowledge that his ten year old son had bravely taken on five larger kids and came out victorious. What the little boy said next however, shattered that image of bravado and admiration in one, quick, motion._

"_They were talking bad about Cody," His voice distorted due to the grapefruit sized swellings, "so I beat them up."_

_Without even thinking of the consequences, the older man lounged forward and threw a brass-knuckle back hand squarely across the left side of his son's face. The sound echoed viciously off the cabin walls of the moving limo – and even garnered some attention from the driver in Virgil. However, stillness befell the situation as the most the driver did was close the separating screen. And the most Ted did was bite into his lower lip and breathe hard to vanquish the pain. _

"_What did I tell you about speaking that filthy name in my presence boy?" The older man growled something terrifying. "I'll sooner finish what those brats started if you keep letting that little puke's God forsaken name exit your mouth!"_

_After gathering hold of his raging pain, and taming it back down to a bearable level, Ted simply looked back at his father with a glaring anger seeping across his face. _

_Blinded by the anger that stemmed from such defiance, the older man balled his large hand into a tight fist and struck down the right side of his boy's face. The kid slapped the leather seat hard. His bruised jaw gave way to another crack, and soon bits of partially clotted blood and tiny shrapnel bone flew out of his mouth at high velocity. Instinctively, Ted sat up – wrapped in agony – and peeled his tailored school jacket off his back. He immediately wound up the fabric and wiped it across the seat – sapping away all the blood he had spilled._

_The older man watched in icy silence, before leaning back into his comfortable position, and taking a moment to straighten back the stands of hair that had come loose due to the fit of rage that had momentarily possessed him. _

"_Ted," The older man spoke more calmly than before. Ted looked back to him – this time with a porcelain expression that was neither angry nor glad. "I condone fighting only if it is for a good cause. Filth like that Rhodes boy is not a good cause." A frown creased across the older man's forehead, "The doctor's going to fix you up real good, boy. And if you_ ever_ let another drop of DiBiase blood spill because you were protecting that bitch kid again, I will not hesitate to cut you up and leave you to rot on the concrete Smokey Corner's basement. Do you understand me?"_

_Ted nodded stiffly – bringing a horrid smile to his father's face._

* * *

><p>The low hum of a well-cared for engine streamed through the cabin of the black limousine as four wheels pushed across layers of asphalt in an effort to get home. Ted knew it was no longer safe to be inside DiBiase's territory, however documents and bits of computer technology sat hidden away inside his large house. Evidence he had to recover fast if he ever wanted to leave the country alive. In the memory bank of his phone, DiBiase senior had stored away a one way ticket to the Mediterranean. He had a comfortable bungalow overlooking the vast Mediterranean Sea, and a sizeable bank account that one of those hidden computer chips could help him freely access.<p>

It was still something of a shock to the old man just how much the police knew in regards to the death contract, but in this day and age it really should not have been much of a surprise. The very fact that a police officer had gotten hold of such a valuable document proved to the old man that the times had drastically changed. People and police officers worked in conjunction rather than opposition. DNA evidence could be plucked from even the atom that lingered about a victim. The Black Shield no longer had the once believed 'immortal' Vincent Kennedy McMahon in it. Ted Senior's very own arch nemesis in Dusty Rhodes was also a thing of the past. The old man himself was no longer the leader of the DiBiase Clan. His bastard son was. The son who most resembled him in every way except one.

"Where did I go wrong, Virgil?" Ted asked of the passing city flowing across the shined tints of his closed window.

It suddenly dawned on the older man that not once in his life had he traveled with the window down. Not once had he smelled the city as it passed over his moving vehicle. Over forty years since he became Head of the DiBiase Clan, and Ted DiBiase Senior found himself unable to even imagine how spectacular the late winter sun looked against the city walls. To the sad feeling of having lived so long inside a world walled with reflective surfaces, Ted looked to his dire situation as a way to escape the mounting gathered his composure, the older man continued on with his small talk.

"It's a question I think every father asks themselves the moment they realize how hated they are by their own children. Where did I go wrong?" A sliver of sorrow passed over his aged eyes now fogged by the after effects of cataracts, and retina reconstructive surgery. "When Mark was born, I was the happiest man in the world. I was rich, powerful, married to a beautiful woman, and now I had a son to carry on my legacy. I wanted to name Mark after me as my father did, but the wife convinced me to give him a Christian name. Every time I called him by it I hated the name more and more. Then we had Brett, and my hatred just grew more. It was that hatred that made me cheat Virgil." He sighed heavily as a wave of mixed emotions caved through his frail body.

His mind replayed the imagery of the naked housemaid entwined in the bedding of his and his wife's bed. Suddenly, he began to feel it all over again. The fear of knowing what he had just done. The anger that forced his hand to beat the helpless woman. Not wanting to get sucked into a void of regret, Ted stepped back from his memories and focused more on the cars sliding away like the liquid being poured from a bottle of oil.

"That woman gave Ted his name. She thought it was only appropriate, but I didn't really care. My wife found out of course, but God bless her she forgave me and gave our two sons a younger brother. But maybe it was just the consequence of my sin…I couldn't love Brett or Mark the way I did Ted. I tried, but something about that boy tugged at my heart, and I couldn't help it. I couldn't help but treat the other two with disregard. I couldn't help but shun them. They both tried hard each and every day to live up to me, make me proud, and I was, but I never showed it." He sighed heavily again, "That's regret Virgil. Something else every father comes to feel when he realizes that he chose to glorify the son who despised him and ostracize the two who loved him." The old man paused for a moment to let his own words sink in. "I gave up everything for Ted. I gave up my loving wife. I gave up my loving sons. I gave up my power. My life, my money, my heart – everything I gave to that boy. And now, I'm fleeing for my life knowing that if he ever finds me, he'll kill me. He'll kill me Virgil, and he'll use that filthy heirloom from that filthy family. My beloved son will come after me and then he'll leave me alive just long enough to give me the reason why." The older man turned his eyes to the closed, tinted glass partition staring back at him. "And you want to know that reason Virgil?" A silence followed. "Virgil?"

The limo came to sudden stop – flinging the older DiBiase forward and off his seat. The movement caused his knee cap to hit the ground hard – an injury that further incensed the older man. Once he grabbed hold of his wits, he immediately clambered up to face the partition, and angrily knocked his balled fists against it.

"Virgil what the hell are you doing?!" He barked in ire. "Virgil open this damn thing and tell me what the hell is going on!"

After a short while, the partition opened. A series of expressions blew across Ted DiBiase's face. First, it started with the usual brand of anger that came with being in the presence of insubordination. Soon, the expression marched over the large mass of slight confusion, only to escalate to full confusion. When the partition pulled away entirely, the older man stared back with a solid coat of horror painted across his face.

"You—"

A sharpened sound of metal scraping metal clipped through the tight air, and in one effortless moment, Ted DiBiase Senior lay awkwardly strewn across the floor and seating of his antique limousine. Blood slipped from the mid-sized hole sitting in the center of his forehead. Behind brand name prescription glasses, fogged eyes sat wide open to the ceiling above as deadness soon reached them, sucking the light away from them both like a door being closed to a dark room. The last sound to follow was the car door being closed shut - keeping out the bustling noise of the city around, and entrapping the tidbit of curious warm air that had slipped in to keep the old man company.

* * *

><p>"This is absolute bullshit!"<p>

Brett looked on nonchalantly at his bellowing Detective, and wrestled with whether the angry blonde was right, or if – by hierarchy – he was right. For the sake of respect, Brett decided to lay down his heavy crown of authority, and simply treat the matter at hand with the same tired method he had now come to always use. Leaning forward with clasped hands and placing the entirety of his forearms on the large desk loosened the tightly wound environment, and eased, even in the slightest, the thicket of wrath that had long since consumed the Detective. With this well-practiced stance, Brett knew he had now dug a place into the heart of the argument and would fully remain there until the bitter end.

"Look, Chris," He stated formally, further knocking down the wall Detective Jericho had used to bulldoze his way into the Captain's office unannounced and without any authorization. Many would have probably had their badges ripped from their person for such a bold move, however this was what Brett Hart had come to expect from his very opinionated senior Detective. When Chris Jericho had something to say, people heard it whether they wanted to or not. Raising hell to such an extreme was only common to the Detective when the law stood between him and who he believed was the criminal. "I understand how you feel better than anyone else, however, we have no evidence to hold DiBiase here."

"That is just a pile of crap and you know it, Brett!" He barked in ire. "I have evidence!" To the word the blonde flung across the table a handful of crime scene photos and the lone picture of the death contract – which he quickly grabbed and damn near shoved it into the Captain's face, "I have a conspiracy to commit murder right here signed by that old fuck and his merry sidekicks!" In a swift motion, the blonde slammed his hand down onto the surface of the table – shaking a few of the looser items – crumpling the photograph beneath his heavy palm. "I have motive, I have method, and I have a body in the morgue! So you tell me Hart, what evidence was I lacking?"

Brett sighed softly as he leaned back into the cup of his chair. "I begged the city Mayor and every top official judge within fifty miles of this zip code to grant me that warrant of arrest. They all wanted to turn me down because the evidence you and Bourne had collected were all based on hearsay and words from equally hardened criminals. But I convinced them Jericho. I convinced those men in tight suits to grant me the warrant you and your partner needed to arrest Ted DiBiase Senior for murder based on your promise to gather hard evidence for the case. However, you instead present to me nothing more than a few pretty pictures, and a contract that slave trader Vickie Guerrero handed to you citing that 'it belonged to Ted'." A frown seeped on his heavy brows, "Even after I bent over and took one up the ass from my superiors in an effort to keep Ted here for seventy two hours, you come barging in with _your_ little side kick to give me exactly what you started off with! An empty bag of tricks that you and your partner thought could be passed off as something valuable!" He leaned forward and shifted through the pictures lightly as Chris stood up away from the desk. "Now, the case on Ted Senior is no longer going to be pursued unless one thing happens effective immediately."

Knowing the thin ice on which he now stood – through saner eyes a veteran in Chris Jericho could clearly see how little his evidence would have held up in court; especially since it had now been deemed by his Captain to be nothing more than 'pretty pictures' and possibly forged documentation – Chris washed away the justice pursuant in him, and instead went the route of humility. "I can find more evidence, but I need Ted DiBiase alive."

"Nothing will happen to the old man." The older man spoke in nonchalance, "He planted his son as his potential killer, and I'm sure even that snot-nosed brat understands who we'll come after if his Dad ends up in the basement of Smokey Corner. So don't worry about Ted." Brett looked up at Chris with a piercing gaze. "Tell me who your source is."

From the short distance, Evan clearly spotted on his partner a shiver of jilted fear that suddenly befell the older blonde. With just six words, the hard-nosed, bite-first mongrel in Chris Jericho suddenly became rigid in an unknown panic. The reaction sparked Evan's already peaked curiosity. He too had always wondered about his partner's source. Police work was hard enough, but the officers in this corner of the world specialized in hunting down the Black Shield – a task which increased their load by a hundred fold. The world did not know of the existence of the elusive crime organization, and for those who did know of them, information gathering on that end almost always started and ended on a cold trail. However, with this case in particular, Bourne could not help but feel as though everything was going according to an already set plan. The rookie Detective knew, from what little experience he had on the field, the difference between gut feelings, luck, and following carefully placed bread crumbs. With this particular case – from its strange beginnings to how it now had played out – Evan felt himself nearly ninety percent on the side of being a part of the latter. Someone had left a trail of well-placed clues and guides for them to follow. And that someone had ensured that this seemingly lesser case would be picked up by none other than Chris Jericho and his brand new partner with whom he found incapable of cooperating with. To the creepy feeling clawing down his spine, Evan tried desperately to stop himself from joining in the conversation and pressing the issue at hand. The brunette folded his arms across his chest to seal away the urge to know – even though somewhere deep down Bourne knew that whomever Chris had as a CI was likely to either know or be the man responsible for leaving those bread crumbs.

Having stood in the stagnant silence long enough to get his feet wet, Chris finally found the only set of words he trusted to let slip from his lips. "My source is reliable." He said sternly, "He is never wrong."

/He?/ Evan thought from behind his partner's back, and ran down a list of all the men he could think of who might have fit the bill. None matched and so the younger man was left in the same sea of high-strung tension that he had found himself in the second Brett Hart asked what he had wanted to know of since the first case he worked with Chris.

"Oh?" Brett asked falsely intrigued, "And you are sure of this?" Chris gave a slight, but stiff nod in response. "Since you're so sure, then you must know this guy personally?"

A moment of hesitation passed before Chris continued, "No." Came out flatly. "He's just that good. A real pro at gathering information, and a working chameleon who can blend into and out of any situation."

"So who is he Jericho?" To this, Chris stood tight-lipped. Brett sighed heavily as he leaned back into his chair. "This case is hanging by a thread. You need more evidence and you've told me you'll somehow be able to get more. However, I can have the higher ups eating out of your palm if you simply tell me who your CI is and let us use him to bring this thing to a head quickly."

"That would put the confidential out of confidential informant." His face sat on a cold slab of rigidity. "I can't do that Brett."

"Alright." The older man subsided, "Then tell me one thing Jericho." He looked at the standing blonde with a high-browed authority, "How did you find out who Rosa's pimp was? Did your informant tell you, or was it your gut feeling?"

Bourne felt the crushing weight of the moment cave down on him. The Captain had seized every thought the brunette ever had whilst working on the case, and was now using those words to corner his partner into an Iron Maiden. On one hand, the younger Detective felt his sense of need overwhelm him and justify his curiosity with the thought that this is what partners do. They share information and the source of their information. Failure to comply with this golden rule landed people squarely into Jericho's shoes. On the other hand, Evan could not help but visualize his partner etching ever so closely to that torture device having been prodded onwards by the tips of sharp blades. His partner needed help – some shape or form of it – and the golden rule never allowed for abandonment in a time of need. Not even when that time of need came from stubbornness.

"I made the connection when Geneviève told us about Rosa's profession." Evan spoke up faster than his brain had decided. Having all eyes facing him with some expectancy, Bourne felt the pull of wanting to claim he was lying and step out of the room. However, he had already set the corner stone. Moving it now would crumble their case. With that in mind, the brunette continued spinning the web he now constructed. "When we spoke to Rosa's landlord Geneviève, she mentioned Rosa's prostitution." He glanced to Jericho, "Chris and I" and then looked back to Hart, "sat down and we brainstormed some places. We narrowed it down to the inner city because that's where Rosa lived and normally working girls stay close to where they get their money from. Three places came to mind, and with a little research, we found that the closest place to her was La Familia."

A few seconds passed with no further words. "And?" Brett inquired with a slight rotation of his hand, "Go on Evan."

The brunette thought for a second on how much more he could go, and worried for a second on the idea that Brett was merely allowing him to fabricate this great story of teamwork knowing that, one, Jericho had a well-documented history of being a lone and aggressive wolf, and two, the truth had already been spoken to him and he was merely allowing himself to be entertained by Evan's desperate attempts. With the horrifying thought rooted in his mind, Evan took a few precious seconds allotted to him and looked to Chris for some hint of moral support. A nod of approval – if so much – or even just a twinkle in the eye that said 'keep going kid. You're doing great'. Chris' deathly cold expression gave no such response, and thinking more on it, Evan realized how entirely strange it would have been had the older blonde gone on to do such out-of-character things. In the last moments granted to him for thought, Evan came to the conclusion that he had no choice but to continue lying, because at this stage, Brett was somewhat buying into it, and cold as he was, Chris seemed to show some sign of gratitude (mixed in with surprise) for having the light turned away from him and spotted on Evan.

"We went to La Familia and we asked for the owner. Vickie came out and she told us about Rosa being bought by Ted Senior." A part of Evan liked the vision of two police officers coolly stepping into a criminal business, and speaking with the owner in a cloud of smoke with three glasses of scotch on the rocks sitting ahead of them condensing to the heat of the room. The image felt real to Bourne the more he thought upon it, and so, the brunette felt it easier to lie. "She then gave us the death contract and said she had been holding onto it to use it as leverage if the DiBiase's every tried something."

To the conclusion of Evan's story, Jericho looked back at Hart triumphantly. The older man simply scowled back in agitation, but soon conceded to the defeat, and rested clasped, raised hands under his chin to provide it with support. He sighed loudly to clear the air.

"I'll talk it over with the tight suits. You two go and find old man DiBiase and bring him back here to be placed in protective custody following his own belief that his life might be in danger if he's let out." He stared harshly up at Chris, "You and Bourne are going to be his protection. I want this detail done quietly until the higher ups approve to reopen that side of the case." He exhaled and leaned back heavily into his chair – shifting his back a bit as he did. "You can go get a head start Jericho. Convene with that CI of yours and get whatever you can from him."

"Yes Sir." Chris spoke in a slightly arrogant tone, before turning and leaving the room.

Evan set up to follow shortly after.

"Hold on a second Evan." Hart spoke to halt the younger man – causing the door to close in his face. "Come here."

The younger man did as instructed – standing firmly in the same spot that his partner had just stood. "Sir?" He asked politely, fearing with every passing second the worst possible outcome.

"I've known Chris Jericho since he first stepped foot in a Police Academy. He was and always will be a selfish, stubborn, arrogant son of a bitch, so I know for a fact that you are almost ninety nine percent in the dark when it comes to working with him." Evan swallowed hard as he felt the pressure build inside his chest cavity– rapidly squeezing out the air from his lungs. "I also know that Vickie Guerrero has a little red room where she watches the main floor from, and the only people she lets in that room are her richest clients, her newest sex toys, myself, and Chris Jericho. So, right there I knew you were lying because Vickie won't speak to another soul other than the aforementioned few." The older man cast a small smile on his face. "Don't look so stiff Bourne" The man in question merely stiffened more as he thought about the consequences he had forgone the moment he decided to keep lying. "I'm not going to reprimand you for lying. I get you were trying to protect your partner. However, I'm going to ask a favor of you in return."

Evan thought on the possibilities, but ceased doing so once they spanned out to an endless variety. "What do you need me to do Sir?"

Hart chuckled lightly to the formality. "It's nothing deathly serious Evan, so you can stop with the Sir."

"Yes Sir— I mean, Captain." Evan clumsily corrected.

Brett continued to chuckle until his stern expression befell his facial muscles – setting them in a stone of seriousness. "I promised to speak to my higher ups, but they will never grant permission to waste tax payers' dollars on what they consider to be a solved case. To them, Rosa is a prostitute who died at the hands of some unhappy or maniac customer. To _them_, there's no need to involve the Black Shield or this department. I believe different." He looked to Bourne – netting the younger man in a long stare in an effort to settle in an unspoken understanding. Evan soaked in the telepathic line like a sponge placed in a tub of water. "However, to convince those tight suits of what I believe in and what you and Chris believe in, I have to provide them with the source of all this information. Jericho is right. His source is never wrong. No matter the case, Chris' CI always seems to be able to point everyone involved in the right direction. That kind of power says one thing to guys in my position and guys in the positions above me." He allowed the words to sink their teeth into the cavity of Bourne's mind, before continuing on. "I want you to find out who your partner's CI is, and do it discreetly. All I need is a name, and the tight suits will be able to sit happy knowing they've got the ball back in their court. Can you do that Bourne?"

The question in itself was simple enough. Bourne knew he was entirely capable of trailing his veteran partner around until he caught the older man speaking to the mystery informant. With the ease of technology, finding out the name of the mystery man would be the easier part of such an act. The question was simple, but the answer came a lot tougher. In every essence of the meaning, Brett 'The Hitman' Hart was asking of the young Detective a 'yes' response to something that stretched outside the brunette's scope of morals. Evan could never betray his partner – especially not after he had gone and lied to save the man's skin. However, when stacked on top of one another, the brunette found to his surprise that his loyalty to Chris Jericho as a partner fell far below his loyalty to the law. With that, the younger man found it much easier to utter the three necessary letters and take part in something he prided himself on never being involved in. Betrayal was an ugly game, but even uglier was sitting on his hands and letting slip the real killer of a poor immigrant girl.

"Glad to hear it" Brett spoke as he stood to his feet. He walked over to the window overlooking the bustling main floor. Evan slowly trudged to join the older man – and upon following Hart's narrowed eyes – he found himself staring at Jericho.

The blonde was standing at their desk with his phone in his hand. Blue eyes scanned the area around, before the older man put the phone to his ear. Evan watched, guiltily intrigued by his partner's suspicious actions, but was thrown for a round of surprise upon seeing Jericho sprint with urgency to the stair case beyond the glass doors and vanish down the second flight – phone still very much attached to his ear.

"I'll let you know right now Bourne," The brunette continued to watch the floor below – still caught up on the reasons behind Chris' sudden exit. "That wasn't his wife calling."

Bourne turned to look at the Captain – catching the tails of the wiry smile laid across his face. The two stood staring at one another for a few more uncomfortable seconds until Hart calmly turned and headed back to his desk. Evan looked at the ground with a frown of confusion lacing his forehead. In a last ditch effort to gather his resolve, the younger man looked out beyond the glass walls and found the floor filled with hard-working officers, and void of a partner who had a head start all along.

* * *

><p>Two circular silver coins slipped down the dark alley of the slot, clambered loudly down the jagged chamber, and stacked flatly atop pieces just like them. With the press of each button, the receiver echoed loudly into his ear making him glance tentatively over his shoulder to ensure that the world did not hear his call. The first ring was devastating. The second was even worse. On the third ring, he turned to glance back at the stolen Saturn sedan and watched for a moment as another layer of city dust blanketed the already dirty frame – thinking now was the best time to get back inside the vehicle and drive away. The fifth ring passed by and forced him to look back at the face of the old payphone, as if to remind him of how much he could not leave. On the sixth ring – having now passed the threshold of hope to land in the puddle of unwanted acceptance –his shadowed eyes wandered over aimlessly to the middle-aged, stoic clerk sitting propped up on a wooden stool behind the laminate counter with its body of 1970s wood paneling. The balding man lazily flicked through an old magazine that had the latest in hunting gear featured on its cover. <em>Pretty much all the Midwest does is hunt<em>, were the words that came to his mind in a voice not his, and originating now from someplace far and desolate. Even more so than this strip of land skating on the outskirts of a large city.

A repetitive dial tone brought him back from where his mind had wandered off to. He held the large receiver off his ear and looked into its structured punctures and slim physique. It was all he could do to convince himself not to rip apart the booth in a fit of understandable ire. Those two silver coins were all he had left to his name – and the destination was still so very far away. Not inclined to damage the piece of property, he painfully placed the receiver back to the base and left it dangling as it was before he ever touched it.

"No answer huh?" He looked to the clerk and found the man peeking up from beneath overgrown eyebrows. "Them your last quarters?" He asked in a distinct accent of illiteracy.

"Yeah." He answered in a gravelly tone as he placed his gaze back to the road bitten Saturn. Beyond the murky front windows of the isolated gas station, and even beyond the dusty windows of the parked Saturn, he clearly saw the calming face of the young lad he had been carrying in tow for over a decade.

A sigh proceeded him as he thought upon what was now a very dire situation. Food. Clothing. Shelter. All three things were bought with money. Money they now did not have. For a moment, he began to ponder upon those grave words. _Pretty much all the Midwest does is hunt_. He could hunt too. The Jackal had a few rounds. He was a good shot. And the woods are always teaming with edible life, so certainly he and kid could live.

The idea did bring a sense of relief to his state of mind, however it was short lived and out gunned. If they turned into a pack of wild men, there would be no moving forward – something he couldn't allow. Not in a world like this.

The phone rang loudly.

Both he and the clerk looked back to it with an unspoken tension flooding the tiny space. A second ring came through to chisel through the hardened air. The men inside the establishment shared a short glance – one weary and one stony – before he merely turned and answered the call.

A clammy silence befell the room, before a sound pierced through the other end. "Hello Mark, how've you been?"

Mark stood grounded in the same mindset he always found himself in when he heard this voice in his ear. "Good." He lied.

"Happy to hear it." Joy slipped in through the receiver, "I had feared life on the road had hardened you, but you sound just as pleasant as when we first conversed." A pause ensued, "How's little Phil doing these days?"

Mark stared out at the stationed Saturn – watching as Phil peered forward to get a better view of the bright sky above through the speckles of grit and dirt littering the windscreen. "Where's the next rest stop, Wolf?"

"Still not one for small talk eh?" A light chuckle entered the conversation momentarily, only to see a swift end having met a brick wall of seriousness, "I've been hired by some very desperate and rich people. They've paid me for a job well done, and of course, as our agreement states, I will be handing you your thirty pieces of silver. _Enough_ silver to buy yourselves a new life."

"Where is the rest stop?" He repeated coldly.

A long sigh heralded a deadpan response, "The last place you want to be, but the only place you can be." A slight pause trailed through – allowing Mark's mind to dread for a moment what he was sure to come, "New York."

There were many things Mark wanted to say in response to the new found location. New York was indeed the last place he wanted to be. After all, dogs of every breed were scouring the earth for him – have been for ten years – and all of them had a master situated in New York. In a short moment, Mark felt an urge to tell Wolf where to shove his location and simply walk away. To quell the urge, the older man simply shoved his hand down the pocket of his light coat until his chapped fingertips smoothed over the corners of a crumpled pamphlet. Like morphine, the piece of paper calmed him – soothing his mind to think outside its own selfishness, and realize that not only were they too close to the end to turn back, but Wolf's money could truly buy a new life. Maybe a quiet life across the oceans. Maybe a life in a different place where the people do much more than just hunt. Either way, that kind of lump sum would be a ticket for freedom. A way to erase most of what was done – leaving behind only the deeply ingrained stains that neither time nor silver could expunge.

With that in mind, Mark came to the conclusion to bite the bullet and take the grave step forward. "How do we get there?"

"Drive, but not in that piece of shit Saturn. I think it's seen enough." Mark looked at the vehicle and began to inspect its surroundings. Apart from two old gas pumps, the radius stood deserted which only gave the older man chills to the how's of Wolf's extensive knowledge. "There's an old friend with a SUV. He'll get you where you need to go."

"Where exactly are we heading?"

"The clerk's got the address." Mark glanced over to the balding man – finding the man peering back with a colder set of crystal blue eyes. "But Mark"

"Yeah?" The older man inquired whilst prying his gaze from the unnerving stare.

"There's something I need you to secure for me while you wait in New York."

"What is it?"

Another light chuckle echoed through the hollow receiver, "Nothing that'll stand between you and your plans." The serious tone returned, "I just need you to hold onto the item while I secure the money from my desperate clients. It'll be at your new rest stop wrapped up and bow-tied. But be warned, it bites." Mark's face showcased a slivered look of disgust as he thought on what this 'item' could possibly be. "Well anyways," Wolf continued, "You and Phil-boy just sit tight. The clerk will give you the address and a new set of shiny coins. Hold on to them just in case. Your ride will be there in about half an hour, so relax in that Saturn of yours until then. Safe travels, Mark."

A dead tone came through to Mark's listening ear. The older man held the phone close for a moment, before sighing and placing it back to its base. As he did, the clerk stood up as if on ceremony and presented to the grimy counter a tightly bound roll of one hundred dollar bills, and a folded piece of lined yellowing paper. With the items in view, the clerk merely sat back on his stool and continued flipping through his hunting magazine. Mark tentatively walked over to the objects before picking them up and sliding them into his pockets. He turned to leave, but stopped and looked back at the clerk.

"Hey" He spoke in a low tone. The clerk looked back from beneath a raised brow, "People in the Midwest. Is it true that all they do is hunt?"

The clerk paused for a moment before laughing in a raspy voice – a troubling sign of years of heavy smoking. "No." He stated with a brimming smile, "We kill too."

A crack formed on the lower half of Mark's chiseled face – forming a slight grin that etched across unevenly. He scoffed to the notion and headed out the door to sit himself down back into the dusty car. The door creaked as he brought it to a close, but once inside, the older man leaned back onto the somewhat comfortable seats and looked to the ceiling for a moment. His mind thought on all he had come to know, all he had yet to learn, and all he knew. The beginning of his life. The horrific middle pieces that had once aimed at his inevitable demise. The stray pieces that entrapped the life of a little boy into a very different fate. His own constant, and desperate attempts to change that fate.

As the damaged vertebrae of a weakened spine molded the body into the cup of the driver's seat, Mark could not help but be overwhelmed by the gravity of his circumstance – and the extent to which it had changed him. He had been a killer once. A stone-cold, hardened, remorseless killer. He had stolen much more than old cars and ill-fitting clothes. He was used to the scent of blood money, and the way it so easily passed from his hand into the hands of countless ignorant people. Surviving as he did now did not differentiate from the means by which he survived before his thread of life ruthlessly tangled a helpless child. What did differ was the constant stings of a sinking feeling – something guttural and sickly like a rotten aftertaste or the feeling of dead flesh beneath a warm hand – that crossed over his iron heart with little penitence for the damage done. What ifs and the like suddenly passed through his stressed mind as he delved upon his present situation and where it was to end up. Instinctively, he looked over to his right. The face looking back had aged, but the bright smile and the blindly happy demeanor had not. Maybe it was the innocence. Maybe it was the blind faith. Either way, seeing a happy Phil soothed the older man and gave him a well needed boost to continue on. The end was finally near. The days were finally numbered. And the younger man depended on Mark to bring him safely across the finish line.

He trusted him enough to do just that.

"We're almost home Phil." He spoke lowly and reassuringly. A large hand came around the back end and placed itself gently atop Phil's head – rummaging a set of fingers through the unruly locks. After a few seconds, the hand fell and returned to Mark. "Get some rest. It's going to be a long ride."


	10. Devyat'

"We are here today to pay our tribute and our respect to a man of God, our brother Theodore DiBiase Senior. Not only have people from his family and ministry gathered, but many members of our beloved community who respected Theodore DiBiase Senior and his positive impacts on the world, have joined us here today. To know Theodore DiBiase was to love him. So on this day, as we stand face to face with our collective loss, let us take a moment to pull ourselves away from our grief and instead look upon our own recollection of the man Theodore was.

Born on a brisk January morning of 1954, Theodore DiBiase was what many called a man destined for God. His childhood days were spent in New York mostly with his father – who had been separated from his mother – and despite facing the consequence of a fearsome father, Theodore never missed a Sunday here at the church. He was a bright young boy in a world that needed him to be just that, and he excelled amongst many of his peers in both his mental and spiritual strengths. This very place that we have all gathered was bought and restored by Theodore. This church was to him what his family could not be. God was to him a loving and kind and gentle Father. Theodore dedicated the majority of his life to the worship and fellowship of the Lord. Even when his own life took him down stranger paths, Theodore never once deviated off the path that God had laid out for him.

Theodore, to many outside of this church, was a man of hard business and cold airs. Theodore to his beloved sons - two of whom lay here next to him- and late wife was a kind and gentle man who would do anything to protect his family. Theodore to this community was a giving man. Everyone held a different version of Theodore DiBiase Senior, and that makes me recall a statement he once made in the later years of his life.

"When I retire, people will know in detail what I wore on that day. They will know where I was, they will know who I spoke to and who I ignored. But they will not know me. In a way, this is similar to the way Christians are. We know everything about God, but we do not know Him."

The first time I heard those words, despite having been a minister for over forty years now, I still felt as though a revelation had washed over my very spirit. On that day, I looked at Theodore with a new set of eyes. I saw in this man not only the accumulation of a life of ministry, but also the accumulation of a life spent walking with and in the Holy Spirit. Even now as I stand over his graveside, I still am able to see what I once saw all those years ago. With that my fellow brothers and sisters, I beseech you to look beyond your grief and bring back to mind the Theodore DiBiase who paved the way for your once broken communities, who restored your damaged faith in the good Lord, and who brought into your own lives even an instant of peace and joy and love. As we now set to lay to the earth a man dearly missed, I have no doubt that Theodore has already met people in heaven who have thanked him for those very things. I have no doubt that others in the future will come up to him in heaven and express their gratitude for having him in their lives as a minister, a leader, a boss and a beloved father. Theodore's work on this earth was of eternal value, and because of that, he will have eternal reward.

While you all come forth and shed those tears, and place those flowers atop his final resting place, I leave with you all words that Theodore's son has written for his father today.

_I don't believe in death, who comes in silent stealth. He robs us only of breath, not a lifetime's wealth. I don't believe the grave, imprisons us in the earth. It's but another loving womb, preparing our new birth. I do believe in life, empowered from above. Till freed from stress and worldly strife, we soar through realms above. I do believe then, in joy that never ends, and in the promise that we will all meet those we've loved again, and celebrate with our friends. _

Theodore, you are a brother to us all, and as you go before us to sit with the Lord you have so loved, we all want to say thank you. And thank you all gathered here today. May the Lord bless and keep you, may He shine his face upon you and give unto you his peace. Amen."

A collective murmur caved through the sardine packed crowd. "Amen"

The pastor somberly drew onto himself a cross, before planting a light kiss on the crucifix hung around his neck. Having done so, the machine steadying the heavy coffin – ordained with an array of various flowers and petals – gently lowered into the ground, and removed its arms only once the coffin had been securely placed six feet under. Two bulkier men carefully shoveled dirt into the deep hole, as most of the solemn crowd dispersed. Ted stood with his hands at his side. Beyond the dark lenses of his sunglasses, he watched silently as the hole filled with uprooted dirt.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Theodore." Ted continued to look on at his father being buried. "Your father was a good man, and an equally great minister. He is truly missed."

The younger blonde turned his hardened expression to spot the heavily aged face of his family's pastor - caked by wrinkles that were muscle deep, and similar to a clay strip of land sat beneath a hot desert sun. The old man had outlived two generations – his grandfather's and now his father's – but even a man of God could die. With that, Ted felt a bit relieved to know that he would at least outlive this man. He would not be buried here at this church, nor would this pastor read his eulogy to a somber crowd.

"Thank you." He cracked a small smile. "Your words were beautiful, and moving."

"It's not at all hard to speak about your father." The pastor smiled lightly, only to push aside the expression and replace it with one of deep-rooted worry. "Have the police uncovered any leads as to who did this?"

Ted slowly shook his head "They haven't, but I'm confident that justice will prevail."

The old man nodded before planting a light pat on DiBiase's shoulder, "That's good. I will pray for their success." He looked at the younger man, "I will also pray for yours."

Ted smiled once more, "Thank you Reverend."

The pastor turned and walked away – joined shortly by the two men responsible for covering his father's coffin. Ted looked back to the lump of unkempt earth lying at his feet, before turning away coldly to walk back to his waiting limousine. Once there, Dave quickly opened the door, allowing Ted to slip into the vehicle – taking care to drag in the tail of his long tweed coat.

The vehicle moved off the lot in a slow and steady pace, until the wheels tasted asphalt – to which they began to speed across. Outside, the city flowed by in the colors of familiar greys, tinted with flashes of straying sunshine that clawed away with pointed nails, at the edges of those buildings built from solid glass and rough concrete. DiBiase's blue eyes wandered over the almost toy-like people who put one foot ahead of the other as they went about their frivolous lives. In a never-ending rush the people outside his passing limousine jumped from one part of their lives, and barely registered its own meaningfulness before they were flitted off to the other side. The longer he stared at the silent crowd – separated by glass, metal and locomotion –the more his mind desperately tried to put down the weight on his mind to dwell on the beauty of such a sight. However, what served to move aside the captivating sight of a city that never sleeps, was not grief. He couldn't even fake the emotion of sadness at the funeral, and had merely googled the poem last minute and added it to the template eulogy. A life in which death was a common occurrence had hardened Ted DiBiase against all emotions related to the subject. And lacking any and all relationship with his father, hardened the young blonde ten times more in respect to no longer having the old man around to hate. Therefore, grief was not weighing on young DiBiase's mind. Cody Rhodes was.

"This may not be the best of times to say this Boss, but I'm not able to keep silent any longer." Dave spoke with eyes squarely focused on the congested traffic, "I don't like this alliance."

Ted sighed heavily as his eyes continued to rake over blankly at the liveliness of the city. Blithely people went about within constricts of their laws and personal morals. However, for every bit of light peppered throughout the city, at least ten shadows lurked about right behind. In these shadows stood people who had no moral compass. People who believed in a binary and dated system whose logo read in bold letters 'blood for blood'. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. It was the shadows Ted DiBiase knew of and lived in, and it was the shadows in which he found the source of his deepening worry and fear. Out there, somewhere in the darkened shadows of this uncaring, non-stop cesspool of bulk murder stood his best friend. Alone. Afraid. And knowing Cody – far, far away from DiBiase territory.

"Boss," Dave chipped in to lasso Ted's attention – which the blonde gave very little of, "I understand your concern for Cody's safety, but trust me, we are doing everything possible to find him." The older man glanced at the rear view mirror to spot DiBiase's expressionless face looking back. "Don't involve Wolf in this. He's—"

"He promised to find Cody and bring him back to me." DiBiase spoke distantly, "I don't care about who he is, or what he'll do. He's going to find Cody, and that's all that matters."

The blonde returned his blank stare to the window. There he entranced himself and busied his mind with the happenings outside his limousine. Having hypnotized himself enough with the scenery, Ted refocused on somehow finding the elusive grief he now felt obliged to have towards his dead father – seeing that it would be the emotion the press would be searching for.

Dave continued to eye his Boss for a moment longer. In that time, his instincts blasted their alarms loudly inside his head. He felt the words he needed to make public inhale and exhale over the ridges and bumps of his tongue. However, despite the guttural feeling of impending doom associated with hiring a wildcard in Wolf to find an even worse wild card in Cody Rhodes, it would taste a lie for the older man to state he did not understand the workings of Ted DiBiase's heart. Since day one of meeting the brunette, blue-eyed Cody Rhodes, nothing else existed in Ted's heart except the man he categorized as being his best friend. And for over a week that best friend was missing without a trace. With that, it became much easier to empathize with what the young blonde felt right now. He was at a desperate brink – a brink so overpowering that not even the loss of his blood parent could bring him back – and seeing the minutes tick by where Cody was mixed into an ultra-violent world…even the leviathan comprehended his Boss' rash actions.

Regardless, he still didn't like it, but as the heavy traffic finally got around to moving, Dave forcefully focused back on the road ahead, and rid his mind entirely of the noises of his instincts.

* * *

><p>The video froze to capture the sight of a tall, well-dressed man stepping away from the stopped limousine. Brown eyes peered intensely at the slender figure of a blurry man, in an attempt to gather some revealing clue about his identity. Due to the maxed out zooming capabilities of the video footage, the most the brunette could find was that the man was dressed in a tailored suit with the color of a red shirt peeking out; he was tall – about six five or an even six-six – wore leather gloves to leave no fingertips, and wore the classic chauffeur hat which did well to hide his hair. His back was turned entirely to the camera, and he kept abreast of the other watchful CCTV's littering the general street by consistently keeping his face out of the limelight – making recognition near impossible. Slightly discouraged, the young man leaned back in his chair and sighed loudly to his revelation.<p>

"You can keep watching that tape Evan, but you won't see anything." A callous tone brought his attention to the man lazily seated behind him. "Skilled guys like this guy like their privacy."

"Everyone slips up Chris." He spoke in slight agitation, "This guy will too."

Jericho dropped his deadpan gaze from the bland ceiling to look over the serious expression now white washing his partner's face. He scoffed to the effort, "Have you found anything of use?"

Bourne looked to his partner, "Not yet." He smiled for a moment, "I'll see something soon enough. Surveillance is my specialty, but it wouldn't hurt any if you'd chip in." Ended his sentence as his eyes fell back to the moving video clip on the large TV screen.

To the sardonic remark, Jericho huffed something mean, before letting out a long, drawn sigh. His blue eyes watched over Evan as the brunette sat – with his back bent forward and forearms atop his thighs – watching the grainy security camera footage taken from what was now a crime scene. For a moment, the blonde felt a desire to join his rookie sidekick and decipher even a fragment of the assailant's identity, but he put the feeling aside in favor of reaching into his pocket and prepping himself a cigarette. The sickly guilt spreading through him made it harder to keep a taut hold on his match.

To the sound of pronounced, uneven scraping noises drifting lightly through the small room, Bourne turned his head once more from the video footage, and focused his deepening frown to Jericho.

Noticing the look of disdain on Bourne's face, Chris ceased his attempts to light a match and stared back as conceitedly as he could. "What?"

"You know you're not allowed to smoke here, Chris." He replied dryly.

"Only if you tell." Jericho smirked as he tried once more to light the match, only to give up once it snapped in two.

Evan slowly shook his head as he looked back to the screen. "You have a bad habit of provoking people. That habit might get you killed one day."

The words sent a chill up Jericho's spine – one he could not simply ignore. "Is that a threat Bourne?"

"No." The younger man stated pointedly whilst rewinding a piece of the video for closer inspection. "It's an observation."

"Tsk!" Jericho spat mundanely as he ripped out the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it with deadly force in his right hand. The match was spared none as it too was further broken down into mere woodchips. "We've been at this for days. Who cares about that scumbag getting killed?" His eyes lit a fire with an agitation that had no known origin – to which Jericho simply forwarded off as something stemming from having to pull away from a calming smoke. "He got what he deserved. Case solved. Justice served."

The video clip paused on the view of the killer stepping away from the limousine. "Justice served?" Evan turned back fully towards his partner – taking care to eye him almost sympathetically. "Is that really what you think Chris? That justice was served?" He peered at Jericho with a pained expression, "What about Rosa? Huh? Has justice been served for her? Has it even occurred to you that Ted might not have been her killer? That maybe the man in this video killed her, and then Ted, to cover his tracks?"

"That's impossible." He stated arrogantly.

The tone caused Evan's face to rupture at the seams, as annoyance sprung from the open wounds. "Impossible? Why is that impossible?" Jericho visibly swallowed whatever response he was mulling upon, leaving Evan to pick up the slack "When you burst into Brett's office, you demanded the case stay open because you were adamant about Ted being guilty. Now he's dead, and we have a potential new lead, and instead of helping me catch this guy, you're content to close the book on this with flimsy evidence." His brows knitted tightly into a frown, "You never cared about Rosa! You just wanted Ted to be guilty!"

"Ted _was _guilty and his time was long overdue." Jericho spoke remorselessly as he sat upright in the chair, "Just like that prostitute."

For a moment Evan stared dumbfounded by his partner's words, until he was able to sieve through the characteristic callousness. "You know," He started in with a low, and slightly uncertain tone, "When I transferred here and heard you were going to be my partner, I was ecstatic. I was teaming with the great Chris Jericho. The man responsible for over a thousand convictions. I never figured you for a quitter." Auburn eyes peered intently at the straight-laced expression hardening on Jericho's face. "Are you a quitter?"

"I'm no quitter Bourne." Derailed Evan's attempt to continue on in the direction to which he had steered the conversation. Sensing the shift in power, Jericho continued on fiercely, "I've been in law enforcement for decades now. I know what it's like to desperately want the law to prevail, but guess what little man. Justice isn't an exclusive right. It can go to a beat cop just as easily as it can go to some hired gun. But guys like you – little naïve guys like you—" He stressed, "don't get that concept. In your minds, the world has good and bad. Sometimes the good suffers for the bad, but in the end, some hero wearing a badge will swoop in and save the day. Cancerous thinking like that is what puts men in the ground early, because you never once think of the sacrifice that comes with being a hero." The older man scowled nastily at his perplexed counterpart, "I'm not quitting anything, but facts are facts. A gunslinger took out a crime lord whom the world will not miss. We'll take that because as it stands, we have no leads, no evidence, and no case. So stop wasting your time on catching a shadow, and let's get on with picking up another case that can put some other pot scum behind bars."

Bourne took a moment and looked back to the television – discerning the pixel frame of the tall killer. He tried desperately to pinpoint someplace where he could have merely walked by the man in the video, however nothing came to mind. Out of the countless faces Bourne had seen in his lifetime, the face that mattered most was the only one he had never seen before.

"I'm staying on this case." He spoke in a low voice. "No matter how bad a guy Ted was, murder is still murder. And I refuse to let vigilantism trample over police effort and sacrifice." He looked back to Jericho, "Plus, we have your CI. If you contact him, maybe he might be able to tell us who this killer is. We could strike him a deal—"

"Evan!" The loud shout – followed by the sound of a wheeled chair careening across tiled flooring as Jericho stood to his feet –echoed madly throughout the tiny room. It stopped the younger man cold. "Let it go! It's done! Stop trying to grab at straws when there's nothing there! A Black Shield member was buried today. We won. Move the fuck on!"

Not willing to back down from his own beliefs, Evan stood up suddenly - placing himself close enough to Jericho to breech the older man's personal space. "Why are you so willing to sweep this aside?" He asked rather calmly, throwing the blonde off guard. "Is it because I mentioned your CI?" Chris visibly grit his teeth in a lock-jaw effort to keep his anger from commandeering his words. Evan looked on with deepening suspicion, "You know, I've been wondering about this mysterious CI of yours for a long time. That guy always seemed to have the right dose of information, and that information always led us to another clue that led us to an arrest warrant. I found it strange that you knew so much all the time, but you weren't really the one with the knowledge were you?" He leaned in closer to the taller man – not breaking his intense stare for even a second, "Tell me Chris, who's really responsible for your decorated career? Is it you? Or is it your CI?"

Jericho's jaw tightened to subside the desire to fling Bourne's head through the television, "A little rookie from some no name Missouri small town shouldn't even _think _of questioning my credentials." His voice hit a grave tone, "You can sit here and watch a video until your fucking eyes bleed. Hunt down your own version of justice until you pass out from exhaustion. Lose the man you were to become the city's hero. And when you're done, take a look down and you'll notice that you've been walking in my shoes." Evan could not hide the look of bewilderment that seeped through his stern expression. Chris simply looked on and scoffed, "I've lost enough to this city and Justice herself to know when the fight's over and the war's begun. My only advice is that you better have this kind of strength around when that realization comes for you."

To his words, the older man turned sharply and headed to the door. Bourne watched as his partner slammed the door with enough force to shatter the glass – had it not been built to withstand heavy assault gunfire. For a moment he stood in a standstill time lapse, trying earnestly to figure out the actions and words of his normally overconfident partner. Having come to no solid or satisfactory conclusion, Evan turned back to face the large wall-mounted screen. Brown eyes analyzed the scenery around the stopped limousine. It was eerily calm and listless – filled with people strolling by unaffected by the sight of a stopped limousine and an exiting driver. Looking at the frozen footage, Evan felt a sense of unnerving calm seep over him and it made him think of that moment right before a storm hits. That moment of peace that shatters like a crystal glass exposed to a high pitch – ushering in a violent turbulence in which he could either stand away from, or be part of.

Two officers passed by, catching a glimpse of Detective Bourne seated firmly in front of a television – watching the recorded footage of a street camera.

* * *

><p>Being inside the four door Ford Escape – with its fancy gizmos underlined with an afterglow neon blue, and the female voice that would chip in every minute or so to provide them with another bit of direction – was akin to sitting in the bowel of an empty vacuum cleaner. There was no air, or if there was, it wasn't the kind of air you were accustomed to breathing. Of the latter, Mark was one hundred percent sure. His lungs burned to the toxicity of the stagnancy, and with each inhalation, a piece of lung tissue blackened and withered away. The silence enveloping the tense atmosphere only added to the blaring hazards, but having lived in silent atmospheres for a decade, Mark found this situation a little more bearable. Soon, the large brunette was able to shrug off the toxic effects of the tension and return to himself the assurance that not only would nothing go wrong— nothing <em>could <em>go wrong.

"What's the matter Mark?" The driver asked with his eyes focused on the stringy road. Calaway glanced to him with a poorly hidden glare forming an equator across his eyes. The driver looked to Mark, smirked coyly, and returned his attention back to the road. "You were a lot more talkative when we last saw each other."

"You lied to me." He spoke dryly – still looking on with an unrelenting stare meant to dissect and intimidate. Instinctively, Mark's fingers tightened around their hold of the _Jackal_ sitting discreetly on the innards of his jacket.

"You did too." The larger man chuckled heartily. He glanced back to Mark – sliding his eyes down heavily to where the concealed weapon resided – before looking back to the road. "I'm not going to hurt you Mark." He shot a look through the rear-view mirror to spot the frightened face of the young brunette seated in the backseat. "Wolf tells me your name is Phil." He smiled, "I knew a Phil once. Ever heard of a Phillip Brooks?"

A ring of iciness touched the large man on the temple. Without even so much as breaking his stare, the bald man knew exactly what was now resting against his skin. Inside, he felt an icy jolt of fear – the kind reserved for what comes as a consequence of discovering that death was truly upon you –but on the outside, the larger man remained quite calm. He had a road to concentrate on, and a destination to arrive to, so with that in mind, he simply sighed lowly and completed the first part of his task list.

"Put that gun away." He spoke commandingly.

"Just who the hell are you, Paul?" He pulled back the safety – allowing the deafening click to send rapid-fire chills down the larger man's spine.

Paul gripped the steering wheel tightly as a light frown dangled above his sharpened eyes. He glanced back to the rear-view mirror, before bringing his eyes over to Mark for a brief second. "Put the gun away Mark." Darkened jades glared back viciously to the command. Paul rethought his steps the further down the cold metal pushed into the side of his head. "The kid doesn't look so good."

Instantly, light broke through Mark's dark aura. The brunette quickly looked to the backseat to find Phil now cooped up in the corner behind the driver's seat. He was huddled into a tight ball – clutching himself at the hilts of raised knees as though he was trying to disappear within his imaginary shell. To the sight, Mark's head lost the weight of worry, and immediately, he put away the Jackal – taking care to conceal it back in the darkness of his jacket. With the weapon now removed from the already tense environment, Calaway leaned over the side of his seat so as to lessen the distance stood between himself and the backseat brunette.

"Phil." He lightly called. The brunette – at first – took a moment to flinch, before finally raising his head to bring a frightened pair of green eyes back to the older man. Calaway exhaled with fervor akin to being punched in the gut, and found himself able to sit back into the passenger seat. "Get back on my side." He spoke with authority.

The brunette gingerly began to unravel himself, and soon skidded across the long seating to squish himself into the corner located behind Mark's seat. He neatly packaged himself into the corner and focused bright eyes on the driver. The larger man looked up at the rear-view mirror once more and smiled – an action that forced Phil to clutch onto Mark's shoulder with thin hands, and huddle even closer to the door.

"He's a skittish one isn't he?" Paul laughed loudly, "I really like you two."

Mark returned to the conversation a hardened expression intent on letting no emotion in. "I'll ask again" The heavy tone scorched the earth it tread upon, "Who the hell are you? I know now you're no trucker."

"Very astute of you Mark." Paul spoke with diminishing friendliness in his tone, "My name is real though. A lot more than I can say for yours." He glanced to the older man, and then returned his gaze to the winding road. "I'm what you call a transporter. I take goods from one location and deliver them to another. Recently, a friend called in a favor, which explains why I'm here chauffeuring you two to New York."

"Wolf's your friend?" He asked staidly.

"We've had our ups and downs, but" He sighed, "let' just say I want to see how his story ends." Paul glanced back to Mark with a grin that remained even after his eyes went back to the road. "If that makes me his friend then I guess that's just what I am."

Mark's frown deepened, "How do you know about Phil?"

"My God." Paul laughed heartily once more. Mark tensed uneasily. "Is this what it feels like to be interrogated?" He shook his head for a moment, "I don't know anything about the kid. All Wolf gave me was the name. He was shocked to hear that you had already told me your name the first time we met." Blue eyes shifted momentarily to Calaway, "People on the run don't normally do that." He looked back to the road once more – turning as the female voice instructed, "Are you on the run Mark?"

Mark thought for a moment the meaning of the question. It was simple enough. He and Phil were wanted dead by every known orifice of the Black Shield – something a decade seemed unable to erase, or diminish. For the answer to such a simple question, Calaway had to look no further than the years he spent not sleeping and keeping a tense finger on the Jackal's stiff trigger. However, upon mulling over the breakdown of Paul's inquiry, Mark found a hidden tone streaming through the thickets. People on the run didn't have plans set up. They didn't have a guy on a payphone who possessed God's eye and a firm grip on serious money. They didn't have a way out of their situation as well-planned as the route Mark and Phil had been treading upon. People on the run stayed running until a Specter with a scythe came along to put an end to it all.

"As long as they're people out there trying to kill him, we're on the run." He spoke distantly with a gaze set to the vast roadway ahead.

Paul looked to Mark once more – taking in the older man's heart wrenching expression – before refocusing his attention to the task at hand. "They're people out there who want you dead too Mark. Be a little more concerned about your safety."

"I won't die." Rolled over a gravelly voice, "Until Phil is safe, I won't die."

Paul once more looked to the brunette. He chewed on the man's solid words, and thought deeply on the origin of such an unmoving resolve. After a few seconds, his eyes went back to the road, but his mind still mulled over Calaway and Phil, and what Wolf had said before handing him the keys to this brand new Ford.

* * *

><p><em>There's a point in a person's life where they reach a crossroads. On one side, they can live their thread of life to the very end. On the other side, they can cut that thread short. The Undertaker's the only man I know who's been able to do the latter, and its turned him into something people either fear or respect. The men who've hired me aren't part of the latter, but I am. And when you've got him in the seat of your car, you'll be there too.<em>

* * *

><p>Paul glanced to Calaway finding the man still looking out the windshield with a stoic, and unmoving expression. Even though he was larger by far, Paul felt a creeping sensation claw up his back and reach around his neck and shoulders. In the pit of his stomach, Paul feared the brunette. Any man who unflinchingly cuts his own life short surely cared little about their own lives and even less about the lives of others. However, what served to stave off the fear was the realization that amidst Calaway's decision stood a reason for it. Phil was the reason Calaway did what many men could not. Phil was the reason Calaway terminated what could have been, in order to become the shield and protector of a kid less than half his size. Suddenly, Paul glanced to the rear-view mirror. His innards sunk to the feeling of vanishing oxygen the longer he stared at the wide-eyed brunette looking back in panic whilst clutching tightly to Mark's shoulder. Fear caved over the larger man as he thought upon a scary fact. Mark Calaway was known the world over to be an immortal killer. Death itself. For such a man to dedicate the remainder of his life span to the protection of one man…Paul could not help but wonder what kind of person sat huddled in his back seat.<p>

"I'd appreciate it if you focused on the road." Mark spoke dryly, forcing Paul's eyes to him. "The kid is afraid of guns, but he'll still sleep like a baby if I pulled the trigger on you now."

Paul set up for an immediate response, however his eyes caught a glimpse of the protruding section of Mark's jacket staring back at his right set of ribs. To the sight, Paul rigidly turned back his attention to the roadway – now finding it littered with specs of life as they entered another small town.

"New York's far away." He stated to calm his growing anxiety, "You can get some shut eye if you want. I won't harm the kid or you. I happen to like my body with exactly the same amount of holes it has right now."

To the remark, Calaway loosened his grip on the Jackal and allowed himself to lean back into the cup of the leather seat. Phil's grip tightened on his shoulder – digging now into the barely healed muscles that still donned the bruises of years passed. Mark flinched a bit to the pain, before resting a strong hand over Phil's.

"Get some rest Phil." He spoke softly. The younger brunette looked to Mark. "I'll watch over you."

For a while, the brunette continued to hold onto Mark and defiantly stare back at the driver – who glanced back at him every now and again – before finally curling up to the back of Mark's seat and allowing himself to accept the need to rest. His head laid atop Mark's hand – trapping the older man's arm across his own chest. Paul looked to the almost flowery scene, before placing his eyes back to the darkening road. _Head north for 534 miles _was the last thing the Turn-by-Turn voice said before the toxic silence befell the viscera of the vehicle once again.


	11. Desyat'

The car drew to a slow halt. Brand new tires crunched the gravelly asphalt below in a way similar to boots treading upon hardened snow. The lower portion of the grimy city looked to anyone who ventured in to be lost in a simpler time. A time when cobblestone existed, people around were more or less neighborly, and every corner had a store branching out to the sidewalk. This side of town looked less like Black Shield territory and more like the kind of neighborhood photographed on those gift shop greeting cards that have typed across the top, heart-felt words like "From Our Hearts To Yours". A town filled with nuclear family homes, fireplaces stocked with wood for those winter nights, and a neighborhood park that didn't have gang symbols marking the playgrounds or chain-link fences who had long lost their confidence and stood sagging at the top and marred with gaping puncture wounds. This side of town was as close to normal as normal could get in a world littered with faucets of the Black Shield. Such peace and calm could easily overrun even the blackest of hearts, blindsiding anyone who dared to allow into their minds the very thought of "maybe I could…"

For a moment, as the engine faded out to a fast shut off, the young blonde felt himself drifting into those dangerous waters. The fresh air that seeped in through the cracks in his heavy armor rotted him down to the very core as he too began to dwell for a moment on the _maybes_ and _what ifs_. If the world suddenly went back to a time before the formation of the Black Shield. If the world went back to that day spent at the carnival sitting across a scared brunette on a broken Ferris wheel. If the world even went back to something as close to the time he spent staring at the now closed park reminiscing on a past long vanished with a man who he spent nearly all of his life trying to keep safe…..Ted could not stop himself from thinking what he would have done so differently to not arrive at this outcome. The blonde thought – for the briefest of moments –on every little scenario that he could have changed to avoid his current circumstance. First the disappearance of his friend. Then the death of his father. And now his alliance with a trigger happy former cop. The domino effect had happened to Ted while he was off inside his mind thinking of the _what ifs_ and the _maybe I coulds_. Each piece fell with a thunderous force, until the last piece lay flat on its back, pinning young Ted DiBiase to the situation in which he found himself now neck deep in.

"Boss." A low voice called in, breaking through the fog that had begun to form around Ted's brain. "We don't have to do this. My guys are out there leaving no stone unturned, and—"

"Your men had weeks to find Cody, Dave." Ted slid in with his eyes staring daggers at the back of Batista's head. "Wolf tracked him down in three days." He exhaled loudly, "When Cody's been safely returned to me, I except you to have every man currently looking for him executed or else you'll suffer their fate." A stern tone fell through, "Am I clear?"

"Yes Sir" The larger man replied stiffly from the safety of his driver seat. "Crystal."

"Good." DiBiase spoke coldly as he cracked open the lock of his door – opening it to reveal the side walk bridged by a dramatic series of cement steps leading up to an old wooden door. "Let's get my best friend back where he belongs. I don't want to spend another second in Hunter's territory."

Immediately, Batista heaved a long breath before flinging himself out of the car. He positioned himself a half step behind Ted – surveying the area as the two mounted the steps leading to the door. Everything within earshot screamed of quaint and small town – a realization that even The Animal found shocking, considering that barely one hour away sat areas that held staggering world records for murder, and were literally void of anything remotely close to the word inviting. The Animal felt for a moment a tinge of conscience overcome him, as though he had suddenly been placed on his knees inside the sanctuary of a church. However, the sudden appearance of men dressed in suits bearing concealed semi-automatic hand guns pushed aside the homey feel and replaced it with a sense of heightened guard.

"Bring it down Dave." Ted spoke as the two men approached him. Batista watched as his Boss easily allowed himself to be patted down and wanded and stripped of his weapons, before finally releasing some of the tension built up, and letting the men do their jobs.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, the suited guards stepped aside and allowed the entering men to clear the door before it was pushed shut behind them- leaving the armed Johns to stand guard outside. The room succumbed to the diminished light, however two partially covered windows, sitting on the far wall, allowed for strands of light to flow through and give to the men inside some relief for their strained eyes. Looking around, Ted spotted a tall, casually dressed blonde stood in the blank space between the two windows. His arms folded across his chest wrinkling his plaid shirt - which Ted could not positively identify the color of – and leaned laxly against the wall. With blue eyes scouring the room, DiBiase could tell it was small – most likely the size of a studio apartment – and from the tidbits of sunlight his eyes caught glimpses of dated wallpaper coating the entire space. Through the cracks of the curtained windows, Ted could see pieces of two-by-fours boarded unevenly across the musty glass. That coupled with the lack of electricity, furniture, and a pungent stench of mold and dust – Ted was now certain he was inside an abandoned building.

"You're late DiBiase." The blonde spoke coldly, grinning from ear to ear as he did. "I was starting to wonder if you'd ever show."

"Yeah well," Ted stared deadpan on the pieces of the blonde's face he could see, "I had a death in my family. Got caught up trying to pawn off assets, going to press conferences, seeing lawyer after lawyer…tedious stuff." He lightly placed both hands into his pant pockets. "Now all that remains is my friend." Glaring blue eyes intensified, "Where's Cody?"

"Safe." The blonde replied without hesitation. He let the word sit and fester, before continuing on, "He's a feisty kid, but if you like that kind of stuff then I can see why you so desperately wanted him returned." The grin widened as Ted balled his pocketed hands into tight fists to dissipate his growing agitation. "Either way, I guess you can't afford for someone who knows the inner workings of your Clan to roam free."

"I simply want my best friend safe." Ted stated flatly, "If you had any friends, I'm sure you would find my reasons understandable."

"Yeah. Had." He scoffed, "Operative word there. Like the use of the past tense." He sighed heavily. "Well, anyways, your boy's safe. He's sitting behind that door on your left" Ted glanced to the direction and found a barely noticeable door standing off of his far lower left side. It resembled the size of those normally petitioned to sealing off a broom closet. "Here." A clinking sound came catching Ted's attention, and placed it on the single key that had been flicked into the air only to land a short ways from his feet. "As promised."

DiBiase glared at the shadowed blonde, before bending down with an outstretched arm. From behind, Dave stood stoically watching the transaction. His eyes watched the face of the blonde grin remorselessly, and the creeping feeling of his instincts wandered towards him – grabbing him up in a clumsy hold. A tightness began to form in his chest cavity, and soon Dave found himself gasping for air. Although, the tall blonde had not physically moved from his position, The Animal noticed the barely there shift in his aura. In the blink of an eye, Dave sniffed out the trap.

At a snail's pace, Ted rose to a full stand, and began turning on his heels. The door to his left cracked open, and in the same frame appeared a large man dressed in a mostly silver tailored suit. His near clean-shaven head slipped through the cracks of light in the dark room – reflecting as it did to reveal a light tan peppering through the razed brunette bristles atop his skull. On his face sat a calm lake, but at the hilt of his arm sat a hand curled tightly around the slim body of a smokeless 38 Automatic Colt pistol. The moment his hardened dark brown eyes caught the silver-kissed glisten of the readied rapid fire handgun, Batista lounged forward without a moment's thought. The bullet fired outran him by mere milliseconds, but Dave's surface mass made up for the lost time. The first round – aimed for Ted's face – snapped through his upper left shoulder, breaking through the bone and lodging in the muscle mass unable to move. The second shot landed squarely in his chest cavity, blowing out the air from his lungs. Dave felt the bullet rupture veins and arteries he knew would be vital later on. However, the large man put aside physics and biology to make way for the instincts that had given him his famous nickname.

With two bullets wedged in his body mass, Dave pressed forward in a single bound, and tackled to the floor the man in the silver suit. Both men hit the floor hard, and in the scuffle, the large silver gun went flying upwards. For what seemed to be an eternity, Ted watched Dave and the attacker fist fight on the floor, before finally chipping in and sprinting over to the fallen weapon. He quickly grabbed it, turned to face both men, and pointed the round end to the man sitting atop his bodyguard. Instinctively, the man looked over his shoulder. His face moved through the shadows like a shard of mirror thrown into a deep pond, until the barely there light caught hold of the majority of his face, revealing to both Ted and an injured Dave his identity.

"Randy" Ted spoke in disbelief. "What the hell—"

"Boss!" Dave barked loudly. "Look out!"

DiBiase turned to the feel of iciness clambering down his spine. There he found the blurred face of the tall blonde standing mere inches from him. The grin had long since vanished, and found itself replaced by something uncontrollably darker. By the time Ted hit the floor, the only things he was certain of was the wet feel of his own blood trickling out from where he had been struck, and the vision of Cody sitting beside him as they sat inside the cabin of a broken down Ferris wheel – mumbling on about a promise that neither man could ever keep.

* * *

><p>There was a light breathing sound. Air pushing in, and being squeezed out. For a moment, the crisp bit of breathable atmosphere caused a tingling sensation amidst his remaining lung tissue, but soon he was able to conclude that it was all due to having spent nearly a lifetime drawing away at the tar-filled gases of his mistress. There were many doctors who told him the grim and unnerving news. <em>You won't live past fifty<em>. At age twenty five, the diagnosis was something he merely registered, nodded his head to, and easily chucked aside to the more unused parts of his brain. However, now near the very doorstep of that preordained age, he felt himself shaking ever so slightly to the guttural feeling that he was now treading on Death's territory.

In truth, he had already been at this ghastly place – filled with nothing but bones, overgrown weeds, and dark, slow moving skies – seeing that unhindered access to the elephant graveyard was nothing short of a must have for any person committed to a life of law enforcement. However, for every other time he spent prancing about on Death's play-field, never had the imminence of dying been so close. In fact, just standing alone in the basement of a forgotten highway (having gotten part ways by cab and the rest by both public transit and foot) with nothing save the sounds of stray winter winds toying with unattached pieces of nearby rubble, and a fifteen round standard issue 4.0 caliber Glock 22 sitting in his holster to keep him some well needed company, made him feel that imminence even more.

The company in itself might have been cause for a little laugh, but having inhaled hours' worth of tainted air to offset the rough feel of the crisp, fresh air that hurt his lungs, he thought less about the humor buried deep in his current situation. Instead, the verbatim every doctor in every major city had recited to him with each paid visit replayed in his head on a permanent loop. _You won't live past fifty_. In this somewhat noiseless location greatly distanced from a world revolving mostly around an unplugged drain of crime and death and blood-stained bills of currency, the words hit with a thunderous force. Their iciness only felt the longer he stood staring at the smoke trails being huffed from the partition of his mouth. He had to quit. At some point he had to quit. He knew this much – Evan did not have to constantly remind him of this fact. However, for times like these when a genuine fear of dying joined hands with the distasteful diagnosis of various stone-faced doctors, he countered his inner understanding and knowledge of needing to put down his mistress for good with the inkling thought of simply why.

Why bother quitting?

For every dry tone that repeated the words _you won't live past fifty_, not once had that sentence been followed up with a way to sidestep the bleak conclusion. Rather, the words were said alone as if they were already a forgone and unanimously agreed upon conclusion. There was nothing he could do to save himself from death. He was going to die before the big five-o, and that was that. It was due to this sense of utter hopelessness and inability to change what was already sealed into life itself that he threw down his now finished mistress, and quickly lit up another.

"Barely half an hour in and you're already punching holes into the atmosphere."

"The atmosphere was already fucked up before I got here." He scoffed with cigarette welded firmly between his lips, as he turned around in one fluid motion. "And it's been almost two hours, Wolf." A light frown started atop his brows, "You're late."

Wolf stopped his lazy gait as he raised both hands up midway in defeat. "Duty called." He smirked proudly as he placed his hands back into the pockets of his jeans. "But that aside, you look like shit."

A cloud of toxic smoke covered the space directly ahead of him as he exhaled loudly in a sigh, "I haven't slept much these days." He drew once more on the slender body of his mistress, "Ever since you went ahead and killed old man Ted Senior, my conscience has me feeling like I'm walking on egg shells stacked over a bed of nails. And this partner I've been sided with…pain in the ass." He growled heavily.

"Sorry about that. I was a hired gun, but even I agree that the old man had to go." He scoffed, "And it's Evan, right?" Wolf smiled to the perplexity now seated kingly on the blonde's face, "You didn't mention a name last time we spoke, so habit forced me to dig for one. He's a lot like you huh?" A light chuckle entered the conversation, "Stubborn and by the book."

"I'm no longer Old Testament, Wolf." He sighed heavily once more, "And anyways, I've managed to curve ball him off your trail, but I'd still appreciate it if you didn't leave behind such an obvious one." He glanced about momentarily, "This city's crawling with eyes and ears."

"Sorry, but the time to be careful is over my friend." Wolf drew in a deep breath, before yanking the half-done cigarette from the man's mouth. He took a moment to flash a sly grin before going in for a long, satisfying drag. Instantly, he sputtered and gagged to a jagged cough that clawed through his breathing tubes with nine inch nails. Clumsily, Wolf handed back the cigarette to its owner – who merely looked on boorishly at the choking man before taking a drag himself.

"You never smoked a day in your life." The words came through a cloud of exhaled smoke, "What makes you think you can start now?"

"Probably the same thing that made you start." Wolf replied as his lungs gulped down the delicious fresh air. The man stood ahead simply drew in another round of nicotine and toxin from the belly of his completely halved mistress. "What baffles me is how you keep chain smoking knowing what little life span you've got left." He slowly shook his head, "What you're doing now would be considered suicide, you know."

The man took a moment to look down at the glow of orange packaged neatly in slim, textured white hide that now sat wedged between his middle and index fingers. Encapsulated in deep thought, he half-turned to face the vast constructs of concrete and rubble that lay around, before looking back to Wolf with a deadpan expression. "When's the March going to happen?"

Wolf chucked up a light-hearted scoff as a side-winder smile slithered onto his face. "Intel tells me that the man of the hour has already arrived, and is nestled inside a fortress right here in inner city. The other territories have formed a protective ring around the inner city. Orton is the line of defense, while McMahon provides the venue and DiBiase funds the whole operation." Another chuckle entered the conversation, "Well, as of right now the only thing protecting this March is a bunch of scrawny headless lizards, who are all too occupied with trying to wrap up their own agendas to notice that the hourglass is already empty." The smile widened, "Go figure that this would be the year that all the pieces come together on the same board. The man behind the shadows will have no choice this time but to emerge, and then, it's war."

"War." He repeated distantly as he drew on his mistress once more – stretching this drag in a fruitless effort to be satisfied. "When we last spoke Wolf, you told me you'd be the catalyst for something big, and it seems that you are. To add, I made a promise that I'd help you with your quest, but the way I see it, there are some extra pieces on the board that don't need to be involved."

Wolf scoffed sardonically, "It's really unlike you to worry about a partner, but if he's off chasing your curve ball then he'll be clear out of harm's way."

"And what about the undercover agent I got to you?" Wolf's smile dropped slightly, "He contacted me a few days ago asking for a favor. As it stands, impound is missing a brand new Ford, and the precinct is down one good officer who everyone's been led to believe is currently in a covert operation." Behind the cloud of smoke, he asked "What kind of job have you set Paul up to do?"

Wolf sighed to the inquiry, before raking his hands through his long blonde locks – dragging them back as he did. "He's acting as my transporter."

"What's he carrying?"

"A man and his monster." Wolf replied heartily – making it difficult for his companion to decipher whether or not the blonde was being serious. "Ever heard of a Phillip Brooks?"

"Yeah." He answered without a hint of hesitation behind his words. "Senator Brooks' son. Why are you asking about some kid from a cold case?"

"Kid?" Wolf chuckled lightly, "Hardly. He's a man now."

"Wait" The man responded in sheer disbelief, "Are you telling me that kid's alive?" Wolf looked on in silence with a slight grin stapled to his face. The man slowly removed the cigarette from his mouth, released a cloud of pent up smoke back into the cold atmosphere, and returned his mistress back to his lips. "What does a Senator's son have to do with the March?"

"Nothing." Wolf raised his shoulders comically, "Or everything. Hell if I know. I'm just the guy getting him and his monster from point A to point B."

"If they're of no value to the March, then why are you helping them?"

A sinister grin painted jaggedly across his face, "Because they are of value to me." In the same breath, Wolf dug into his right pant pocket, and pulled out a small red flash drive. He held it outstretched towards the man stood in front of him. "And I'm still Old Testament."

The blonde leaned forward slightly and relieved the tall blonde of the drive. "What's this?" He asked after quickly inspecting it.

"Ten years of filth. The kind that will secure lifetime convictions of each and every person involved in the crime ring of the Black Shield." Wolf rested his now empty hand back into his pocket, "It's the only thing connecting me to you. After today, I won't be on your side anymore. I'll become the very man I've made legendary, and I will exact vengeance on those who've evaded it all this time."

The man continued to survey the small flash drive for a moment longer, before looking back to Wolf with a slightly saddened expression strewn across his face. "I've always said this, but, you don't have to do this Wolf. You and I both know what comes with taking a life, but it's a whole different ball game when you kill an officer in cold blood." Worry began to infect his stern tone. "You'll be hunted for the rest of your life and when they catch you, there won't even be a trial. They'll kill you on sight. Back out now and I promise you I'll make sure justice is served."

Wolf took a brief moment to look to the black and white Converse sneakers clothing his feet. He looked back to the man stood ahead of him, "This coming from a man who's no longer Old Testament?" He scoffed as he tilted his chin upwards, "You've always been able to read people easily, so the day I set my mind on vengeance, you were the first person to see it. I dragged you down into this, but you never once sought a way out, and instead continued to help me in every way you could. However," His tone dried instantly, "This is the point at which _you_ will back out and _I_ will make sure justice is served."

The man removed the now quartered cigarette from his lips. "You know you're going to die right?" He asked stoically.

"I know." Wolf replied calmly, "But there are worse things than death. You of all people should understand that."

Once more, he drew heavily on his mistress – lapping up greedily the last few tidbits of nicotine and poison – before finally tossing the cigarette to the hard ground and stubbing it out entirely with the tip of his shoe. "I won't bury you."

Wolf chuckled heartily to the callous response, "I won't either."

The man sighed heavily as he looked at the flash drive laying in the cup of his palm. "Ten years." He mumbled to the red piece of equipment, before closing his fist around it and stuffing it deep into his right coat pocket. "I'll stay out of your way as best as I can. If you get in any trouble, I won't come and save you."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Wolf continued to laugh lightly. "Anyways, take that drive and hide it somewhere. When the dust settles, it'll be your most valuable asset."

"My side arm is my most valuable asset." He grinned coyly as he held out an outstretched hand with the folded end of a paper sticking out.

"Is this the contract?" Wolf asked as he took the piece of paper. His eyes washed over it for a moment before he looked back with a large smile on his face, "You made a copy right?"

"You're looking at the copy."

Wolf nodded slightly as he stuffed the paper into his pocket. "Thank you."

The man sighed faintly as he looked away to the space over his right shoulder. "This is where I leave you, Wolf." He stated as his eyes returned to the tall blonde. His now empty hand put forward.

Wolf shook the offered hand, "Take care, my friend." A large wiry smile came across his face, "Goodbye."

Wolf turned away and headed down the broken sidewalk sat at the rim of the abandoned construction site. The man watched in solemn silence until the tall blonde had completely disappeared into the city's colorful backdrop. His mind wrapped heavily around his own muddled thoughts – so much so that he missed the sound of a camera lens shutter adjusting itself in the greater distance.

* * *

><p>Winter stubbornly clung to the vastness of the northern lands. Slowly it drained towards the south – much like sand in an hourglass – but as it reached the soupy city center, warmth bombarded it causing it to become lost in the mix. Despite the body count, winter still remained steadfast in the belief that its season had not yet ended. Someplace deep inside the hollowness he was sure he had, Mark felt a tinge of relation to what old man winter was experiencing.<p>

Change is a hard pill to swallow. It had come for old man winter with its warming temperatures, and global influences, and in the same way, it had come for Mark Calaway. To add, just like winter, Calaway refused in every possible faucet to accept the change with ease. For winter, this was a once in every hundred year occurrence where mid-life crisis happened at a later stage forcing it to be more stubborn and less willing to compromise. For Mark, this had been a subject of difficulty for a little over a decade.

Survival comes to the fittest. In some ways, the term had to do with those who showcase physical strengths. In other ways, it had more to do with endurance and mental power. In all cases however, survival came to those who could adapt with the greatest of ease. Since the start of his life, Mark Calaway found himself adapting to whatever changes came to him. Be it a neglectful mother, be it his first fight, or be it behind his step-father's gun – whenever change came to Mark, he molded his entire being to conquer the change and come out stronger than before. This cycle was mostly responsible for his inability to die. Each time Death came, Mark would hammer it down by looking at it as another challenge he had to win in order to keep the prize of living. At some point, however, the Undertaker soon lost his will to survive, but even with that, the DeadMan refused to die. Rather, his body reacted on the simple instinct that was its inability to allow harm to befall upon it. For no other purpose except the selfish reason of owning a body so greatly conditioned to stubbornly rebuke death, Mark Calway continued to live when other men would have succumbed – easily repeating the cycle yet again.

This was his life up until Friday, October 3rd.

Many winters have traveled by since then, however, none more desperate to linger than this one. Past the merits of prideful instincts, something about this season gave winter that true desire to live, much in the way that a scared ten year old kid did for Mark. It was that something that made winter this year very much averse to the change it had once always welcomed. And it was in Phil that Mark found himself no longer able to accept change of any kind – fearing it to be the one thing that slams shut the slightly cracked open door of escape from a terrible fate. It was this aversion in Calaway that forced him to lash out to his current circumstance.

"I'm not babysitting him, Paul." The large brunette spoke bluntly from the doorway.

Paul eased forward on the bed as he stared up at Mark. "This is not up for negotiation, Mark." He replied dryly, "You of all people should know that there would be a payment required for Wolf's assistance."

Mark understood that truth, but his intense stare did not showcase any of his agreement, "I never signed up to be some brat's watchdog." The large man turned to open the closed door.

"It's gonna be minus thirty in a couple of hours, and we're far from anything civilized." Paul's words stopped the DeadMan cold. "Besides, you're already Phil's watchdog, so what's the harm in one more?"

Mark glanced over his shoulder to the heavy man seated on the large bed "I may have been in hiding for a decade, but even I know about that brat." He turned away once more, "I won't bring that kind of evil into Phil's life."

Paul sighed defeated, before glancing over to the brunette stood beside Mark. "Phil" He called. The young man visibly tensed as Mark turned around fully at the sound of Phil's name. "Talk some sense into him."

Mark threw a brutal glare squarely at Paul, "Don't you dare—!"

The younger man took a step forward – throwing Mark's words back down his throat. The room fell silent allowing the air around to thicken with tension. Heavy jade eyes watched as Phil took more steps forward towards the lone chair sitting in the center of the room. As if sensing the change in the air, the man sitting bound to the chair by expertly tied ropes, flinched and begun to desperately kick back with what limited room he had to spare. To the violent reaction, Phil stopped moving. He looked back to Mark momentarily to spot the man's hand placed on the insides of his jacket. Having been caught red-handed, the older brunette released his hold on the concealed _Jackal_ and instead stood firmly in front of the closed front door.

Successfully dosing any further threat from Calaway, Phil turned his attention back to the bound individual. The man jolted a bit as Phil's hand landed lightly atop the piece of cloth that served to blindfold him. Silently, Paul and Mark watched as Phil removed the cloth from the man's eyes – untying it completely to allow it to fall to the floor. Scared blue eyes looked back in sheer terror. Phil looked on unfazed, as he undid the cloth wedged in the man's mouth. With the cloth gone, the eyes looking back slowly lost their fright for bewilderment.

Despite the current surroundings, and the presence of unknown faces, the man in the chair felt a sense of calm overwhelm him the more he stared into the younger brunette's tea-green eyes.

"W-Who are you?" He asked in a shaky tone.

Phil continued to look at him, before bending down in an attempt to undo the ropes that attached the man to the chair. In that moment, Mark stepped forward, and pulled Phil away –marching them both a few steps away.

"Don't free him Phil." He stated in a gravelly tone, "He's the enemy."

Phil looked up at the older man, before peeking over Mark's muscular arm to place bright eyes on the man sitting confused and scared in the middle of the room. He looked back to Mark and shook his head slowly. To this Mark sighed, placing both hands firmly on the younger man's small shoulders.

"Please." He stated through gritted teeth, "Don't make me release him."

Phil continued to look at the shadowed face of Mark. The heavy jade eyes that looked back streamlined with a certain tinge of desperation that somehow pierced through Phil's very soul. He took one last look at the man sitting on the chair, before nodding to Mark.

"Thank you." Mark stated lowly before releasing the younger man's shoulders in favor for turning his entire attention over to the man now standing at the bed. "How long?" He asked coldly.

"As long as it takes." He pulled from his pocket a small phone, and threw it over to Mark. The brunette caught it expertly and looked at it with eyes meant to inspect something foreign. "Wolf will call you on that phone to relay the details of when you and Phil are able to leave this room."

Mark frowned heavily as he glared back to Paul with emerald orbs burning with iciness, "So he's trapping us here?"

"Well, if you consider a place off the gird, stockpiled with food, water and clothing _'trapping_', then I guess that's what he's doing to you." Paul smiled confidently, "In any case, don't lose this guy" To the words he placed a heavy hand on the seated man's shoulder – taking care to give it a hearty pat. "I don't know what evil he brings, but he's my paycheck and your ticket to freedom, so for both our sakes, keep him alive."

Mark watched on silently as Paul walked towards the door. He shifted out of the way to give the older man passage – nudging Phil further behind his board back as he did. Paul looked down to Phil with a smile.

"It's was nice meeting you again Phil." Mark stepped closer to the larger man with the intent to intimidate. To the defensive stance, Paul shirked back slightly. "You guys take care."

With that, Paul left the room. The stray winds that blew in and on a nearby Mark Calaway told the older man that for all the lies Paul had spoken, one truth remained in how right the large man was about the countryside cold. Having felt the gravity of the minus temperatures, Mark decided within himself that staying inside this well-equipped prison would be best. The older man heaved a heavy sigh to clear the air before walking over to the man sitting in the chair. Phil followed behind, placing himself on the bed and lying down to test its comfort.

Mark held the scared eyes of the man in the chair for a tense moment before finally speaking what had been churning in his mind. "I don't like you. That won't change, ever. If you get yourself into a life threatening situation, I will not save you. If you cause a single hair on Phil's head to be so much as curled in the opposite direction, I will kill you. If you ever come between Phil and freedom, I will kill you." He leaned in closer to the young man, "And if you are ever released back to where you came from, and you tell anybody about us, I will hunt you down and kill you. Understand?"

The man nodded vivaciously. Calaway patted him lightly on the shoulder.

"Good." He stated whilst standing upright and marching to the other end of the room.

Phil sat up to watch as the older man slid down the length of the exposed wood wall to sit on the floor. With long, muscular legs crossed at the ankles, Mark sat motionless with eyes focused deadpan on the man sitting on the chair. Phil's attention went back to the young man bound by ropes. The man looked to Phil, finding the younger brunette now smiling sweetly at him.

Perplexed and filled to the max with frayed nerves, the man snapped at Phil, "What the fuck are you smiling at?"

"Hey!" The loud bark brought both Phil and the seated man's gaze to meet Mark's ire-filled expression, "Shout at him again, boy, and I will kill you here and now!" The seated man froze in a blanket of terror. Mark focused his heavy stare at Phil. "Get some sleep Phil."

To the command, Phil slid back down onto the bed. He rolled a few times before finally discovering his comfort zone. Mark looked on in slight annoyance as Phil lay on his side facing the man sitting upright in the chair a few inches from him. The man in the chair looked at the brunette once again finding him smiling brightly from ear to ear. To the sight, a small smile caved onto his face, as Mark's expression softened in the distance.

As the night encapsulated the land, both men sat watching over Phil as he slowly drifted off to sleep.


End file.
